iiiihiihiihiiiiiiihuihii 


iiiiiiiiiiiiiiininimiiiiiiHinii  m 


'X.  Y 


V 


S&. 


tsMfiMMnn^sftt 


The  Promise 


A  Tale  of  the  Great  Northwest 


By  TAMES  B.  HENDRYX 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  Arrangements  with  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 


COPYRICHT,    :yiS 

BY 

j AMES  B.  HENDRYX 


Seventh  Impression 


By  James  B.  Hendryx 

The  Promise  Connie  Morgan  in  Alaska 

The  Gun  Brand  Connie  Morgan  with  the  Mounted 

The  Texan  Connie  Morgan  in  the  Lumber  Camp 

The  Gold  Girl  Wild  Geese 


This  edition  is  issued  under  arrangement  with  the  publishers 
G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York  and  London 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.— The  Pace 
II.— "Broadway  Bill" 
III.— The  Final  Kick 
IV. — Love  or  Hate 
V.— "Thief!" 
VI. — The  Crooked  Game 
VII.— The  Wreck 
VIII.— New  Friends    . 
IX.— Bill  Gets  a  Job 
X. — Northward,  Ho! 
XI. — Bill  Hits  the  Trail 
XII.— The  Test 
XIII.— On  the  Tote-Road 
XIV.— At  Bay     . 
XV.— The  Werwolf  . 
XVI. — Moncrossen 

••• 

1U 


PAGE 
I 

8 

17 
26 

34 
39 
47 
53 
59 

65 

72 

83 
90 

99 
106 

116 


O 


tii 


IV 


Contents 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII. — A  Two-Fisted  Man     .         .  .125 

XVIII. — "Bird's-Eye"  and  Philosophy  .     133 

XIX.— A  Frame-Up         .         .         .  .138 

XX. — A  Fire  in  the  Night          .  .147 

XXI. — Daddy  Dunnigan         .         .  .161 

XXII. — Creed  Sees  a  Ghost  .         .  .169 

XXIII.— Head-Lines          .         .         .  .178 

XXIV.— The  Log  Jam       .         .         .  .187 

XXV.— "  The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die  "  .     196 

XXVI.— Man  or  Toy  Man  ?     .         .  .     209 

XXVII. — Jeanne        .         .         .         .  .217 

XXVIIL— A  Prophecy         ....     222 

XXIX. — A  Buckskin  Hunting-Shirt  .     230 

XXX. — Creed  .....     235 

XXXI. — The  Robe  of  Diablesse     .  .     246 

XXXII  —  The  One  Good  White  Man  .     253 

XXXIII.— The  Promise       .         .         .  .259 

XXXIV— The  New  Boss    .         .         .  .263 

XXXV. — A  Hunting  Party       .         .  .     274 

XXXVI  .—Told  on  the  Trail     .        .  .282 


Contents 


_~™.  PAGE 
CHAPTER 

XXXVII.— In  the  Office  .         .         .  .287 

XXXVIII.— Charlie  Finds  a  Friend  .  .     296 

XXXIX— Bill's  Way        .         .         .  .306 

XL.— Charlie  Goes  Hunting    .  .     3*4 

XLI—  The  Blizzard    .         .         .  .3*9 

XLII. — Bucking  the  Storm   .         .  .     326 

XLIIL— In  Camp  Again          .         .  -338 

XLIV.— The  Missing  Bonds           .  .     347 

XLV. — Snow-Bound               .         .  •     358 

XLVL — An  Announcement    .         .  .     366 

XLVII  —  Moncrossen  Pays  a  Visit  .     374 

XLVIIL— The  Wedding    .         .         .  .382 

XLIX. — On  the  River  .         .         .  •     39 1 

L.— Face  to  Face    .         .         .  -399 

LI. — The  Promise  Fulfilled    .  .     406 

LIL— The  Big  Man    .         .         .  .     4X5 


THE  PROMISE 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  PACE 


Young  Carmody  awoke  to  the  realization  of 
another  day. 

The  sun  of  mid-forenoon  cast  a  golden  rhombus 
on  the  thick  carpet,  and  through  the  open  windows 
the  autumnal  air,  stirred  by  just  the  suspicion  of  a 
breeze,  was  wafted  deliciously  cool  against  his 
burning  cheeks  and  throbbing  temples. 

He  gazed  about  the  familiar  confines  of  the  room 
in  puffy-eyed  stupidity. 

There  was  a  burning  thirst  at  his  throat,  and 
he  moistened  his  dry  lips  with  a  bitter-coated 
tongue.  His  mouth  was  lined  with  a  brown  slime 
of  dead  liquor,  which  nauseated  him  and  sent  the 
dull  ache  to  his  head  in  great  throbbing  waves. 

Upon  a  beautifully  done  mahogany  table  near  the 
door  stood  a  silver  pitcher  filled  to  the  brim  with 
clear,  cold  ice-water.  It  seemed  miles  away,  and, 
despite  the  horrible  thirst  that  gnawed  at  his 

i 


2  The  Promise 

throat,  he  lay  for  many  minutes  in  dull  contempla- 
tion of  its  burnished  coolness. 

The  sodden  condition  of  his  imagination  dis- 
torted his  sense  of  proportion.  The  journey  across 
the  room  loomed  large  in  the  scheme  of  things. 
It  was  a  move  of  moment,  to  be  undertaken  not 
lightly,  but  after  due  and  proper  deliberation. 

He  threw  off  the  covers  and  placed  a  tentative 
foot  upon  the  floor. 

A  groan  escaped  him  as  his  right  hand  brushed 
the  counterpane.  Gingerly  he  brought  the  member 
within  range  of  his  vision — it  was  swollen  to  the 
wrist  and  smeared  with  dried  blood,  which  had 
oozed  from  an  ugly  split  in  the  tight-drawn  skin. 
Slowly  he  worked  the  fingers  and  frowned — more 
in  perplexity  than  distress — at  the  sharp  pain  of  the 
stiffened  knuckles. 

He  crossed  to  the  table  and,  springing  the  silver 
catch  of  a  tiny  door,  cunningly  empaneled  in  the 
wall,  selected  from  the  cellaret  a  long-necked,  cut- 
glass  decanter,  from  which  he  poured  a  liberal 
drink.  The  sight  of  it  sickened  him,  and  for  an 
instant  he  stood  contemplating  the  little  beads  that 
rushed  upward  and  ranged  themselves  in  a  spark- 
ling semicircle  along  the  curve  of  the  liquor-line. 

"The  hair  of  the  dog  is  good  for  the  bite, "  he 
muttered,  and  with  an  effort  closed  his  eyes  and 
conveyed  the  stuff  jerkily  to  his  lips.  Part  of  the 
contents  spilled  over  his  fingers  and  splashed  upon 
the  polished  table-top.  As  the  diffused  odor 
reached  his  nostrils  a  wave  of  nausea  swept  over 


The  Pace  3 

him.  With  a  shudder  he  drained  the  glass  at  a 
gulp  and  groped  blindly  for  the  water-pitcher, 
from  which  he  greedily  swallowed  great  quantities 
of  ice- water. 

He  paused  before  a  tall  pier-glass  and  surveyed 
himself  through  bloodshot  eyes.  The  telephone 
upon  the  opposite  wall  emitted  a  peremptory  ring. 
Young  Carmody  turned  with  a  frown  of  annoy- 
ance. He  ignored  the  summons  and  carefully 
scrutinized  his  damaged  hand. 

His  brain  was  rapidly  clearing  and,  from  out  the 
tangled  maze  of  dancing  girls,  popping  corks,  and 
hilarious,  dress-suited  men,  loomed  large  the  picture 
of  a  policeman.  Just  how  it  all  happened  he 
could  not  recollect.  He  must  see  the  boys  and 
get  the  straight  of  it. 

His  mirrored  image  grinned  at  the  recollection 
of  the  officer,  the  quick,  hard-struck  blow,  and  the 
hysterical  screams  and  laughter  of  the  girls  as 
they  were  seized  in  the  strong  arms  of  their  com- 
panions, rushed  across  the  sidewalk,  and  swung 
bodily  into  the  waiting  taxis. 

B-r-r-r-r-r.  B-r-r-r-r-r-r.  B-r-r-r-r-r!  Again  the 
telephone  bell  cut  short  his  musing.  There  was  a 
compelling  insistency  in  the  sound  and,  with  a 
muttered  imprecation,  he  jerked  the  receiver  from 
the  hook. 

"Well?"  he  growled.  "Yes,  this  is  William 
Carmody.  Oh,  hello,  governor!  I  will  be  right 
down.  I  overslept  this  morning.  Stay  where  I 
am !     Why  ?    All  right,  I'll  wait. " 


4  The  Promise 

' '  Now  what  ? "  he  murmured.  ' '  The  old  gentle- 
man seems  peeved. " 

After  a  cold  bath  and  a  vigorous  rub  he  began 
leisurely  to  dress.  His  eyes  cleared  and  he  noted 
with  satisfaction  that  aside  from  a  slight  pouch- 
iness,  and  the  faint  mottling  of  red  that  blotched 
his  cheeks,  all  traces  of  the  previous  night's  orgy 
had  disappeared.  True  his  hand  pained  him,  but 
he  had  neatly  mended  the  split  with  plaster  and 
the  swelling  had,  in  a  great  measure,  yielded  to  the 
cold  water. 

"Getting  fat,"  he  grunted,  as  he  noticed  the 
increasing  heaviness  at  his  girth.  "Fat  and  soft, " 
he  added,  as  a  huge  muscle  yielded  under  the 
grip  of  his  strong  fingers. 

In  college  this  man  had  pulled  the  stroke  oar  of 
his  crew,  and  on  the  gridiron  had  become  a  half- 
back of  national  renown.  By  the  end  of  his  second 
year  no  amateur  could  be  found  who  would  will- 
ingly face  him  with  the  gloves,  and  upon  several 
occasions,  under  a  carefully  guarded  sobriquet, 
he  had  given  a  good  account  of  himself  against 
some  of  the  foremost  professionals  of  the  squared 
circle.  He  was  a  man  of  mighty  muscles,  of  red 
blood,  and  of  iron,  to  whom  the  strain  and  sweat 
of  physical  encounter  were  the  breath  of  life. 

He  wondered  as  he  carefully  selected  a  tie,  at 
the  strange  request  he  had  received  at  the  tele- 
phone. He  glanced  at  the  French  clock  on  the 
mantel.  His  father,  he  knew,  had  been  at  his  desk 
these  two  hours. 


The  Pace  5 

They  had  little  in  common — these  two.  After 
the  death  of  his  young  wife,  years  before,  Hiram 
Carmody  had  surrounded  himself  with  a  barrier  of 
imperturbability  beyond  which  even  his  son  never 
ventured.  Cold  and  unyielding,  men  called  him — - 
a  twentieth  century  automaton  of  big  business. 
Rarely,  outside  of  banking  hours,  did  the  two  meet. 
Xever  but  once  did  they  hold  extended  conversa- 
tion.  It  was  upon  the  occasion  of  the  younger 
man's  return  from  a  year's  Continental  travel  that 
his  father  summoned  him  and,  with  an  air  of  im- 
personal finality,  laid  out  his  life  work.  The  time 
had  come  for  him  to  settle  down  to  business.  In 
regard  to  the  nature  of  this  business,  or  any  choice 
he  might  have  in  the  matter,  William  was  not 
consulted.  As  a  matter  of  course,  being  a  Car- 
mody, he  was  to  enter  the  bank.  His  official 
position  was  that  of  messenger.  His  salary,  six 
dollars  a  week,  his  private  allowance,  one  hundred. 
And  thus  he  was  dismissed. 

It  cannot  be  chronicled  that  young  Carmody  was 
either  surprised  or  disappointed  at  thus  being 
assigned  to  a  career.  In  truth,  up  to  that  time  he 
had  thought  very  little  of  the  future  and  made  no 
plans.  He  realized  in  a  vague  sort  of  way  that  some 
time  he  would  engage  in  business ;  therefore,  upon 
receipt  of  the  paternal  edict  he  merely  looked 
bored,  shrugged,  and  with  a  perfunctory,  "Yes, 
sir,  "  quit  the  room  without  comment. 

He  entered  upon  his  duties  stoically  and  without 
enthusiasm.     At  the  end  of  a  year  his  salary  had 


6  The  Promise 

increased  to  twelve  dollars  a  week,  and  his  sphere 
of  usefulness  enlarged  to  embrace  the  opening  and 
sorting  of  mail.  The  monotony  of  the  life  palled 
upon  him.  He  attended  to  his  duties  with  dogged 
persistence  and  in  the  evenings  haunted  the  gym- 
nasiums. His  athletic  superiority  was  soon  dem- 
onstrated and  after  a  time,  neither  in  the  ring 
nor  on  the  mat  could  he  find  an  opponent  worthy 
the  name. 

More  and  more  he  turned  for  diversion  toward  the 
white  lights  of  Broadway.  Here  was  amusement, 
excitement — life!  He  became  immensely  popular 
among  certain  of  the  faster  set  and  all  uncon- 
sciously found  himself  pitted  against  the  most 
relentless  foeman  of  them  all — John  Barleycorn. 

Gradually  the  personnel  of  his  friends  changed. 
Less  and  less  frequently  did  he  appear  at  the  vari- 
ous social  functions  of  the  Avenue,  and  more  and 
more  did  he  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  Great  White 
Way.  On  every  hand  he  was  hailed  as  "Bill 
Carmody, "  and  by  the  great  force  of  his  person- 
ality maintained  his  universal  popularity.  Many 
smiled  at  the  rumors  of  his  wild  escapades' — some 
even  envied' — a  few  frowned.  If  his  father  knew 
he  kept  his  own  council — it  was  his  way. 

Only  one  warned  him.  Ethel  Manton,  beautiful, 
imperious,  and  altogether  desirable,  with  just  the 
suspicion  of  a  challenge  in  her  daringly  flashing 
eyes,  was  the  one  person  in  all  the  world  that  Bill 
Carmody  loved.  And  loving  her,  he  set  her  high 
upon  a  pedestal  and  entered  the  lists  with  all  the 


The  Pace  7 

ardor  of  his  being.  His  was  the  love  of  desire — 
the  love  of  a  strong  man  for  his  mate,  bringing  out 
by  turns  all  that  was  best  and  worst  in  him. 

Yet  she  remained  cold — this  girl  of  his  golden 
dreams.  Only  at  rare  intervals  did  she  unbend 
and  allow  him  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  her  very  soul. 
At  such  times  her  eyes  grew  tender  and  she  seemed 
very  near  to  him' — and  very  dear.  And  then  he 
would  tell  her  of  his  great  love,  and  always  her 
answer  was  the  same:  She  would  marry  no  man 
who  was  content  to  live  upon  an  allowance.  He 
must  make  good — must  win  to  the  fore  in  the 
business  world  as  he  had  won  in  the  athletic. 
And  above  all  he  must  forswear  the  pace ! 

In  vain  he  explained  that  business  held  no 
interest  for  him;  that  it  was  no  man's  game,  but  a 
sordid  struggle  of  wits  for  the  amassing  of  un- 
needed  gold.  In  vain  he  argued  that  his  father, 
already  rich,  would,  in  the  event  of  their  marriage, 
settle  a  large  amount  upon  them  in  their  own  right. 
In  answer  to  her  reference  to  his  habits  he  would 
laugh.  He  was  not  afraid;  there  was  a  man's 
game! 

Of  course,  once  married,  all  that  would  be 
changed.  But,  pshaw;  it  is  all  in  a  lifetime!  And 
then  he  would  lightly  promise  to  mend  his  ways — ■ 
a  promise  that  was  forgotten  within  the  hour. 
What  do  women  know  of  a  strong  man's  play? 

But  one  woman  did  know,  and,  knowing,  cared. 


CHAPTER  II 


"BROADWAY   BILL" 


William  Carmody  had  scarcely  completed  his 
careful  grooming  when,  with  a  tap  at  the  door,  his 
father  entered,  closely  followed  by  a  rather  burly 
individual  in  citizen's  clothing,  whose  jaw  was 
correctly  and  artistically  swathed  in  bandages. 

The  two  advanced  a  few  paces  into  the  room 
and  paused.  Father  and  son  regarded  each  other 
in  silence.     At  length  the  older  man  spoke : 

"Where  were  you  last  night?" 

William  flushed  at  the  tone  and  cast  an  inquir- 
ing glance  at  the  man  in  bandages,  who  awkwardly 
shifted  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  His 
father  motioned  him  to  proceed. 

"I  was  out  with  a  bunch  from  Philly.  Chester- 
ton, '05;  Burke,  '03;  little  Hammond,  '06;  and 
old  Busk  Brater,  star  guard  of  the  naughty- 
naughts." 

"Drunk,  were  you?"  The  words  sounded 
coldly  impersonal,  and  the  tone  showed  no  surprise. 

"Why,  no,  that  is,  I  wouldn't  exactly  say — " 
his  father  silenced  him  with  a  gesture. 

"Did  you  ever  see  this  man  before? " 

William  scrutinized  the  other  carefully. 

s 


"  Broadway  Bill rt  9 

"I  think  not." 

"Oh,  you  hain't,  eh?M 

The  man's  awkwardness  disappeared,  he  ad- 
vanced a  step  and  it  was  evident  that  he  spoke 
with  difficulty. 

"How  about  last  night  in  front  of  Shanley's? 
Guess  you  wasn't  there,  eh?  Guess  I  just  dreamt 
about  a  bunch  of  souses  turkey-trottin'  along 
the  sidewalk?  I'd  of  stood  for  it,  at  that,  but 
the  girls  got  to  pullin'  it  too  raw  even  for  Broadway. 

"I  know'd  you  by  sight  an'  started  in  to  give 
you  the  tip  to  put  the  soft  pedal  on  the  wiggle 
stuff,  when,  zowie!  I  guess  you  didn't  reach  out 
an'  soak  me — a  cop!"  He  tapped  the  bandage 
upon  the  aggressively  advanced  jaw. 

"Maybe  the  Times  Building  just  tangoed  across 
the  square  an'  fell  on  me ! "  he  went  on  with  ponder- 
ous sarcasm.  "An'  that  ain't  all;  when  I  gathers 
myself  up,  here's  the  tail-lights  of  a  couple  of  taxis 
disappearin'  into  Forty-fourth  Street,  an'  the 
crowd  laughin'  an  joshin'  me  somethin'  fierce.  I 
guess  I  dreamt  that,  too,  eh? 

"An'  that  ain't  the  worst  of  it.  Down  to  head- 
quarters I  draws  a  thirty-day  space — without! 
An'  then,  again,  I  guess  they'll  shove  me  right 
along  for  promotion  on  top  of  this.  Not!  I 
tell  you  I'm  in  bad  all  the  ways  around,  with  the 
whole  force  passin'  me  the  grin  an'  askin'  me  have 
I  saw  Broadway  Bill  lately?  An'  in  comes  the 
inspector  this  mornin'  with  an  order  when  I  came 
back  on,  to  report  to  McClusky,  up  in  Harlem, 


io  The  Promise 

an'  help  shoo  the  goats  away  from  eatin'  up  the  new 
sidewalks  in  front  of  the  five-dollar-instalment  lots. 

1 '  Nice  kettle  of  fish  for  me,  that  was  in  line  for 
a  lieut.  I  ain't  layin'  it  up  again'  you  so  much  for 
the  jolt;  you're  sure  there  with  the  punch,  nor  for 
the  thirty-day  space,  neither,  though  with  my 
family  I  can't  afford  that  none.  But,  damn  it, 
kid,  you've  broke  me!  With  this  here  again' 
me  I'll  never  be  a  lieut  in  a  thousand  years.  I'm 
done!" 

During  the  recital,  the  officer's  voice  lost  its 
belligerent  tone.  He  spoke  as  man  to  man,  with 
no  hint  of  self-pity.  Young  Carmody  was  honestly 
sorry.  Here  was  a  man  who,  in  the  act  of  giving 
him  a  friendly  warning,  had  been  felled  by  a  brutal 
and  unexpected  blow.  A  hot  blush  of  shame  red- 
dened his  cheeks.  He  was  about  to  speak  but  was 
interrupted  by  the  voice  of  his  father. 

The  old  man  seemed  suddenly  to  have  aged. 
His  fine  features,  always  pallid,  appeared  a  shade 
paler.  Gone  was  the  arrogant  poise  of  the  head 
which  for  forty  years  had  dominated  boards  of 
directors.  The  square-set  shoulders  drooped 
wearily,  and  in  the  eyes  was  the  tired,  dumb  look 
of  a  beaten  man. 

"Officer,  it  seems  hardly  necessary  for  me  to 
express  my  thanks  for  the  consideration  you  have 
shown  in  coming  directly  to  me  with  this  matter,  " 
he  said  at  last.  "Had  you  been  so  inclined  you 
could  have  stirred  up  a  nasty  mess  of  it,  and  no 
one  would  have  blamed  you." 


" Broadway  Bill"  n 

He  stepped  to  a  small  table  and,  seating  himself, 
produced  check-book  and  pen. 

1 '  I  trust  this  will  reimburse  you  for  any  financial 
loss  you  may  have  incurred  by  reason  of  this  most 
unfortunate  affair,"  he  went  on;  "and  as  for  the 
rest,  leave  that  to  me.  I  have,  I  believe,  some 
little  influence  at  headquarters,  and  I  shall  per- 
sonally call  upon  the  inspector.  " 

The  officer  glanced  at  the  slip  of  paper  which  the 
other  thrust  into  his  hand.  It  was  written  in  four 
figures.  He  looked  up.  Something  in  the  old 
man's  attitude — the  unspoken  pain  in  the  eyes — 
the  pathetic  droop  of  the  shoulders,  struck  a 
responsive  chord  in  the  heart  of  the  officer. 

Impulsively  he  extended  the  hand  in  which  the 
check  remained  unfolded. 

"Here,  Mr.  Carmody,  I  can't  take  your  money. 
You  didn't  get  me  right.  I  start  out  to  knife  you 
for  what  I  can  get,  an'  you  wind  up  by  treatin' 
me  white.  It  wasn't  your  fault,  nohow,  an'  I 
didn't  know  how  you  felt  about' — things.  " 

There  may  have  been  just  the  shadow  of  a  smile 
at  the  corners  of  Hiram  Carmody's  mouth  as  he 
waved  a  dismissal. 

"We  will  consider  the  incident  closed,  "  he  said. 

At  the  door  the  officer  turned  to  the  younger 
man,  who  had  been  a  silent  listener. 

"It's  a  pity  to  waste  yourself  that  way.  It's 
a  punk  game,  kid,  take  it  from  me — they  don't 
last!  Where's  your  Broadway  Bills  of  ten  years 
ago?     Stop  an'  think,  kid.     Where  are  they  at?  " 


12  The  Promise 

"My  God, "  he  muttered,  as  he  passed  down  the 
broad  stairway,  "how  many  old  fathers  in  New 
York  is  hidin'  their  feelin's  behind  a  bold  front,  an' 
at  the  same  time  eatin'  their  hearts  out  with  worry 
for  their  boys!     An'  folks  callin'  them  good  fellows! 

"Money  ain't  everything  in  this  here  world, 
after  all, "  he  added,  as  his  gaze  traveled  over  the 
paintings  and  tapestries  that  lined  the  great  hall. 

Above  stairs  an  uncomfortable  atmosphere  of 
constraint  settled  upon  father  and  son.  Both  felt 
the  awkwardness  of  the  situation. 

Young  Carmody  was  a  man  with  a  heart  as 
warm  as  his  ways  were  wild.  His  was  an  impulsive 
nature  which  acted  upon  first  impressions.  Lov- 
ing alike  a  fight  or  a  frolic,  he  entered  into  either 
with  a  zest  that  made  of  them  events  to  be  re- 
membered. He  glanced  across  to  where  his  father 
stood  beside  the  table  toying  with  a  jade  ink-well, 
and  noted  the  unwonted  droop  of  the  shoulders 
and  the  unfamiliar  gaze  of  the  gray  eyes  in  which 
the  look  of  arrogance  had  dulled  almost  to  softness 
— a  pathetic  figure,  standing  there  in  his  own  house 
■ — alone — unloved- — a  stranger  to  his  only  son. 

The  boy  saw  for  the  first  time,  not  the  banker, 
the  dictator  of  high  finance- — but  the  man.  Could 
it  be  that  here  was  something  he  had  missed? 
That  through  the  long  years  since  the  death  of  his 
wife,  the  sweet-faced  mother  whom  the  boy 
remembered  so  vividly,  this  strange,  inscrutable 
old  man  had  craved  the  companionship  of  his  son 
■ — had  loved  him? 


"Broadway  Bill"  13 

At  that  moment,  had  the  elder  man  spoken  the 
word' — weakened,  he  would  have  called  it — the 
course  of  lives  would  have  been  changed.  But 
the  moment  passed.  Hiram  Carmody's  shoulders 
squared  to  their  accustomed  set,  and  his  eyes 
hardened  as  he  regarded  his  son. 

"Well?"  The  word  rang  harsh,  with  arising 
inflection  that  stung.  The  younger  man  made  no 
reply  and  favored  the  speaker  with  a  level  stare. 

"And  you  a  Carmody!" 

"Yes,  I  am  a  Carmody!  But,  thank  God,  I  am 
only  half  Carmody !  It  is  no  fault  of  mine  that  I 
bear  the  Carmody  name!  At  heart  I  am  a  Mc- 
Kim!" 

The  young  man's  eyes  narrowed,  and  the  words 
flashed  defiantly  from  his  lips.  The  shaft  struck 
home.  It  was  true.  From  the  boy's  babyhood 
the  father  had  realized  it  with  fear  in  his  heart. 

The  beautiful,  dashing  girl  he  had  wooed  so  long 
ago;  had  married,  and  had  loved  more  deeply  than 
she  ever  knew,  was  Eily  McKim,  descendant  of 
the  long  line  of  Fighting  McKims,  whose  men- 
children  for  five  hundred  years  had  loomed  large 
in  the  world- wars  of  nations.  Men  of  red  blood 
and  indomitable  courage — these,  who  pursued  war 
for  the  very  love  of  the  game,  and  who  tasted 
blood  in  every  clime,  and  under  the  flag  of  every 
nation.  Hard-riding,  hard-drinking,  hard-fighting 
cavaliers,  upon  whose  deeds  and  adventures  the 
staid,  circumspect  Carmodys  looked  aghast.  And 
this  girl-wife,  whose  soft  eyes  and  gentle  nature 


14  The  Promise 

had  won  his  love,  had  borne  him  a  son,  and  by  some 
freak  of  atavism  had  transmitted  to  him  the  tur- 
bulent spirit  of  the  Fighting  McKims. 

Again  the  old  man  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  the 
voice  that  Wall  Street  knew — and  feared. 

"I  suppose  you  are  well  pleased  with  yourself. 
You  are  referred  to  as  one  of  '  a  bunch  of  souses. ' 
You  were  'pulling  it  too  raw  even  for  Broad- 
way. '  You  are  known  to  fame  as  '  Broadway  Bill. ' 
You  are  a  sport !  You,  and  your  college  friends. 
And  last  night  you  achieved  the  crowning  success 
of  your  career — you  '  soaked  a  cop ' !  You,  the  last 
of  a  line  of  men,  who  for  a  hundred  years  have 
dominated  the  finances  of  a  nation !  You,  the  last 
of  the  Carmodys,  are  Broadway  Bill,  the  sport  /" 

The  biting  scorn  of  his  father's  tone  was  not  lost 
upon  the  younger  man,  who  paled  to  the  lips. 

"Where  are  the  securities  you  were  supposed  to 
have  delivered  to  Strang,  Liebhardt  &  Co.?" 

"Here,  in  my  desk.  I  intended  to  deliver  them 
on  my  way  to  the  bank  this  morning.  The  boys 
blew  in  yesterday  and  it  was  up  to  me  to  show  them 
around  a  bit." 

"I  will  relieve  you  of  the  securities.  The  deal 
with  Strang,  Liebhardt  &  Co.  is  off.  It  depended 
upon  the  delivery  of  those  bonds  during  banking 
hours  yesterday. " 

Without  a  word  William  crossed  to  the  desk 
and,  withdrawing  a  packet  sealed  in  a  heavy 
manila  envelope,  handed  it  to  his  father. 

"The  bank  no  longer  requires  your  services," 


"Broadway  Bill"  15 

went  on  the  old  man  coldly.  "That  a  Carmody 
should  prove  himself  absolutely  untrustworthy 
and  unreliable  is  beyond  my  ken.  I  do  not  intend 
to  take  you  to  task  for  your  manner  of  living. 
It  is  a  course  many  have  chosen  with  varying 
results.  You  have  made  your  bed — now  lie  in  it. 
I  need  only  say  that  I  am  bitterly  disappointed  in 
my  son.     Henceforth  we  are  strangers. 

"Here  is  my  personal  check  for  ten  thousand 
dollars.  That  is  the  last  cent  of  Carmody  money 
you  will  receive.  Properly  invested  it  will  yield 
you  a  competence.  Many  men  have  builded 
fortunes  upon  less.  As  pocket  money  for  a  Broad- 
way Bill  it  will  soon  be  squandered. " 

Mechanically  the  younger  man  picked  up  the 
check  from  the  table. 

"I  think,  sir,"  he  answered,  "that  you  have  suc- 
ceeded in  making  yourself  perfectly  clear.  As  a 
Carmody,  I  am  a  failure.  You  spoke  of  an  invest- 
ment. I  am  about  to  make  one  of  which  any 
McKim  would  approve. " 

With  slow,  deliberate  movements  he  tore  the 
check  into  tiny  pieces  and  scattered  them  upon  the 
carpet.  "I  shall  leave  your  house, "  he  continued, 
meeting  the  other's  gaze  squarely,  "without  a 
dollar  of  Carmody  money,  but  with  ten  thousand 
dollars'  worth  of  McKim  self-respect.  Good-by. " 
There  was  a  note  of  cold  finality  in  those  last 
two  words  and  the  elder  Carmody  involuntarily 
extended  his  hand.  He  quitted  the  room  abruptly 
as  the  boy,  ignoring  the  civility,  turned  away. 


1 6  The  Promise 

An  hour  later  William  walked  hurriedly  down 
the  steps  of  the  Carmody  mansion  and,  with  never 
a  backward  glance,  hailed  a  taxi  and  was  whirled 
rapidly  uptown. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   FINAL   KICK 

It  was  Saturday,  and  Ethel  Manton  was  lunch- 
ing early  that  she  might  accompany  her  fifteen- 
year-old  brother  on  a  ride  through  the  park. 

A  certain  story  in  the  morning  paper  arrested  her 
attention,  and  she  reread  it  with  flushed  face  and 
tightening  lips.  It  was  well  done,  as  newspaper 
stories  go,  this  account  of  a  lurid  night  on  Broad- 
way which  wound  up  in  a  crescendo  of  brilliance 
with  the  flooring  of  a  policeman.  No  names  were 
mentioned,  but  the  initiated  who  read  between  the 
lines  knew  that  only  one  man  could  have  pulled 
off  the  stunt  and  gotten  by  with  it. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Eth,  aren't  you  ever  going 
to  finish?  You'll  waste  the  whole  afternoon  over 
that  old  paper!" 

Young  Charlie  had  bolted  his  luncheon  and 
waited  impatiently  in  a  deep  window-seat  over- 
looking the  park.  His  sister  laid  down  the  paper 
with  a  sigh. 

"Are  the  horses  ready?"  She  asked  the  ques- 
tion in  a  dull,  listless  tone,  so  unlike  her  usual  self 
that  even  Charlie  noticed. 

i? 


18  The  Promise 

"Gee!  You  don't  seem  very  keen  about  it. 
And  look  what  a  day!  You  look  like  you  were 
going  to  a  funeral.  " 

Before  the  girl  could  reply  he  turned  again  to  the 
window:  "Look,  a  taxi  is  stopping  and  somebody 
is  getting  out.  Oh,  it's  Bill  Carmody!  Ain't  he 
a  crackerjack,  though?  Say,  Eth,  why  don't  you 
marry  Bill?  He's  just  crazy  about  you — every- 
body says  so,  and' — > — " 

"Charlie!"  The  word  was  jerked  out  hysteri- 
cally, and  the  boy  was  puzzled  at  the  crimson  of 
her  face. 

"Well,  I  don't  care,  it's  so!  And  then  I'd  be  a 
brother-in-law  to  Bill  Carmody!  Why,  he  can 
lick  everybody  down  to  the  gym.  He  put  on  the 
gloves  with  me  once, "  he  boasted,  swelling  visibly, 
"just  sparring,  you  know;  but  he  promised  to 
teach  me  the  game.  And  football!  There  never 
was  a  half-back  like  Bill  Carmody !     Why  he 


n 


'Do  hush!  He  might  hear  you.  Run  along, 
now.  You  ride  on  and  I  will  overtake  you.  I — I 
must  see  Mr.  Carmody  alone." 

"Mr.  Carmody!  So  you  two  have  had  a  scrap! 
Well,  if  I  was  a  girl,  and  Bill  Carmody  wanted 
to  marry  me,  you  bet,  I'd  marry  him  before  he 
got  a  chance  to  change  his  mind.  You  bet, 
when  I  grow  up  I'm  going  to  be  just  like  him — 
so  there!" 

The  boy  flounced  defiantly  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  the  girl  alone  with  a  new  fear. 

Since  the  death  of  her  parents  she  had  bravely 


The  Final  Kick  19 

and  capably  undertaken  the  management  of  the 
household,  and  her  chief  care  was  this  impulsive 
boy  who  was  so  dear  to  her  heart. 

"Look  after  Charlie  as  long  as  he  shall  need  you." 
The  words  of  her  dying  mother  came  to  her  vividly. 
"He  is  really  a  noble  little  fellow — but  hard  to 
manage. " 

And  now,  added  to  the  sorrow  that  already 
seemed  crushing  her,  was  this  new  anxiety. 

Charlie  had  set  up  an  idoL — and  the  fact  that  his 
idol  was  also  her  idol — although  she  never  admitted 
it- — struck  fear  to  her  heart.  For  the  undiscerning 
eyes  of  the  boy  were  blind  to  the  feet  of  clay. 

In  the  library  across  the  hall,  William  Carmody 
paced  nervously  up  and  down,  pausing  at  each 
turn  to  gaze  abstractedly  out  of  the  window. 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  wait,  the 
portieres  parted  and  the  girl  stepped  into  the  room. 
In  her  hand  she  carried  a  carefully  folded  news- 
paper. She  crossed  to  the  table  and,  regarding  the 
man  with  a  cold,  disconcerting  stare,  waited  for 
him  to  speak. 

"Hello,  Ethel!  No,  thank  you,  I  have  had 
luncheon.  I — "  His  gaze  encountered  the  un- 
wavering blue  eyes,  and  he  suddenly  dropped  the 
air  of  flippant  assurance.  "Er,  I  came  to  see 
you, "  he  added  lamely. 

"Yes?"  There  was  little  of  encouragement  in 
the  word  with  its  accompanying  inflection. 

"You  see,  I  am  leaving  New  York. " 

"Indeed?" 


20  The  Promise 

"Yes,  I  am  going  away."  He  paused,  but 
receiving  no  answer,  continued,  "I  am  going  away 
to — to  make  good.  And  I  came  to  say  good-by. 
When  I  return,  if — if  you  are  still  free,  I  will  have 
something  to  tell  you — something  I  have  often 
told  you  before,  but — well,  things  will  be  different, 
then." 

"I  suppose  you  said  good-by  to  your  other 
friends  last  night?"  Her  glance  rested  for  a 
moment  on  the  folded  newspaper,  and  the  silky 
sneer  of  her  retort  was  brutal — with  the  studied 
brutality  of  the  female  of  the  species  who  would 
inflict  pain.     The  man  winced  under  its  sting. 

"Last  night  cannot  be  recalled,"  he  replied 
gravely.  "Whatever  happened  then  is  past  and 
gone.  You  are  right ;  figuratively  speaking,  I  have 
said  good-by  to  the  others — to  Broadway,  and 
all  it  stands  for.  You  alone  know  of  my  going. 
I  am  making  no  promises.  If  I  fail  no  one  will 
know — nor  care.  When  I  make  good  I  will  return 
— and  then " 

The  girl  looked  up.  Their  glances  met,  and 
in  the  depths  of  the  steady  gray  eyes  the  soft  blue 
ones  read  purpose — unflinching  purpose  to  fight 
and  win  for  the  glory  of  an  infinite  love. 

Her  eyes  dropped.  She  felt  the  hot  blood  mount 
to  her  face  under  the  compelling  magnetism  of  his 
gaze.  She  loved  this  man.  In  all  the  world  no 
other  could  so  move  her.  She  loved — yet  feared 
him.  The  very  strength  of  him — the  overmaster- 
ing force  of  his  personality — his  barbaric  disregard 


The  Final  Kick  21 

of  conventionality  at  once  attracted  and  fright- 
ened her. 

In  that  moment  she  knew,  deep  down  in  her 
heart,  that  if  this  man  should  take  her  in  his  arms 
and  hold  her  close  against  the  throbbing  of  his 
gieat  heart,  his  lips  find  hers,  and  should  he  pour 
into  her  ears  the  pent-up  torrent  of  his  love,  her 
surrender  would  be  complete. 

His  was  the  master  mind,  and  in  all  the  years  to 
come  that  mind  would  rule,  and  she,  the  weaker 
one,  would  be  forced  under  the  yoke  of  its  supre- 
macy.    She  prayed  for  strength. 

Let  those  who  believe  that  once  the  living  flesh 
has  turned  to  clay  the  spirit  dies,  ascribe  to  a  trick 
of  memory  the  vision  of  her  dying  mother  that 
flashed  before  the  eyes  of  the  girl,  and  the  whis- 
pered words:  "Look  after  Charlie  as  long  as  he 
shall  need  you." 

But  those  there  are  who  know  that  in  that 
momentary  vision  spoke  in  faint  memory-whispers 
the  gentle  spirit-mother,  who — ranking  high  in 
that  vast  army  which,  in  the  words  of  the  immortal 
Persian, 

"Before  us  passed  the  door  of  Darkness  through," 

— would  guide  the  footsteps  of  her  loved  ones. 

Thus  strength  came  and  steeled  the  heart  of  one 
great  little  woman  who  battled  alone  against  love 
for  her  right  to  rule  and  shape  the  destiny  of  lives. 
The  momentary  flush  receded  from  her  face,  ^nd 


22  The  Promise 

when  her  eyes  again  sought  the  man's,  their  glance 
was  coldly  repellent.     She  even  forced  a  smile. 

"Is  it  so  amusing,  then — my  going?"  he  asked 
a  little  grimly. 

"Yes,  rather  amusing  to  consider  where  a  man 
would  go  and  what  he  would  do.  A  man,  I  mean, 
whose  sole  recommendation  seems  to  be  that  he 
can  '  lick '  most  anybody,  and  can  '  drink  more  and 
stay  soberer  than  any  of  the  sports  he  travels 
with.'" 

The  dull  red  flooded  the  man's  face  at  her  words. 
Unconsciously  he  squared  his  shoulders  and  there 
was  an  unwonted  dignity  in  his  reply : 

"  I  am  well  aware  that  my  accomplishments  are 
more  in  the  nature  of  liabilities  than  assets.  In 
spite  of  this  I  will  make  good — somewhere. " 

He  stepped  closer  to  the  girl,  and  his  voice  grew 
harsh,  almost  rasping  in  its  intensity.  "I  can 
beat  the  game.  And  I  will  beat  it — now!  Just 
to  show  you  and  your  kind  what  a  man  can  do — 
a  man,  I  mean,"  he  added,  "'whose  sole  recom- 
mendation seems  to  be  that  he  can  lick  most  any- 
body— and  can  drink  more  and  stay  soberer  than 
any  of  the  sports  he  travels  with.'  Incidentally, 
I  am  glad  to  know  your  real  opinion  of  me.  I 
once  believed  that  you  were  different  from  the 
others — that  in  you  I  had  found  a  woman  who 
possessed  a  real  soul. " 

He  laughed,  a  short,  grating  laugh — deep  down, 
as  though  rude  fingers  drew  a  protest  from  raw 
heart-strings — a  laugh  that  is  not  good  to  hear. 


The  Final  Kick  23 

"I  even  thought, "  he  went  on,  "that  you  cared 
for  me — a  little.  That  you  were  the  one  woman 
who,  at  the  last  of  things,  would  give  a  man  a 
helping  hand,  a  little  word  of  encouragement  and 
hope,  perhaps,  instead  of  the  final  kick." 

He  bowed  stiffly  and  turned  toward  the  door. 
"  Good-by ! "  he  said,  and  the  heavy  portieres  closed 
behind  him. 

In  the  room  the  girl,  white  as  marble,  heard  the 
click  of  the  front  door,  the  roar  of  a  newly  cranked 
motor,  and  the  dying  chug,  chug  of  the  retreating 
taxi. 

That  afternoon  Charlie  Manton  rode  alone,  and 
when  he  returned,  hungry  as  a  young  wolf,  to  be 
told  that  his  sister  had  retired  with  a  sick  headache, 
he  drew  his  own  conclusions,  nodding  sagely  over 
his  solitary  dinner. 

Later,  as  he  passed  her  door  on  the  way  to  his 
room,  he  placed  his  ear  at  the  keyhole  and  listened 
a  long  time  to  her  half -muffled  sobs. 

"Gee!"  he  muttered  as  he  passed  down  the 
hall,  "they  must  have  had  an  awful  scrap!"  He 
turned  and  quietly  retraced  his  steps.  In  the 
library  he  switched  on  the  lights  and  crossed  to 
the  telephone. 

"There  isn't  any  sense  in  that,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing to  himself.  "Bill  loves  Eth — that's  a  cinch. 
And  she  does  love  him,  too,  even  if  she  won't  let 
on. 

"She  wouldn't  stick  up  in  her  room  all  day 
bawling  her  eyes  out  if  she  didn't.     I'll  call  Bill 


24  The  Promise 

up  and  tell  him  so,  then  he'll  come  and  they'll 
make  up.     I  bet  he's  sorry,  too,  by  now." 

At  the  Carmody  residence  he  was  told  that  Bill 
was  not  in.  He  received  the  same  answer  from 
several  clubs,  at  each  of  which  he  left  explicit  in- 
structions for  Mr.  Carmody  to  call  him  up  at  the 
first  possible  moment. 

Thereafter  Charlie  frequented  the  gymnasiums 
and  made  industrious  inquiry,  but  it  was  many  a 
day  before  he  again  saw  his  idol.  Bill  Carmody 
was  missing  from  his  accustomed  haunts,  and  none 
could  tell  whither  he  had  gone. 

Those  were  days  fraught  with  anxiety  for  the 
boy.  Ethel,  to  whom  he  was  devoted,  went  about 
the  house  listless  and  preoccupied,  in  spite  of  her 
efforts  to  appear  cheerful.  When  he  attempted 
to  reason  with  her  she  burst  into  tears  and  forbade 
him  to  mention  Bill  Carmody's  name  in  her  hearing 
as  long  as  he  lived.  Whereupon  the  youngster 
retired  disconsolately  to  his  room  to  think  things 
over. 

"Love's  a  bum  thing,"  he  told  himself.  "If 
they  do  get  married  they  die  or  get  a  divorce  or 
something;  and  if  they  don't' — well,  Bill  has 
prob'ly  committed  suicide  and  Eth  is  moping 
around,  and  most  likely  now  she'll  marry  that 
dang  St.  Ledger."  He  made  a  wry  face  as  he 
thought  of  St.  Ledger. 

"Runty  little  mollycoddle!  Couldn't  lick  a 
chicken- — him  and  his  monocle.  And  that  day  the 
wind  took  his  hat  and  rolled  it  through  the  mud, 


The  Final  Kick  25 

and  he  said:  'Oh,  pshaw!'  instead  of  damn  it! 
Oh — slush!  And  I  promised  mother  I'd  take  care 
of  Eth." 

He  burrowed  his  face  deep  into  the  pillow,  as, 
in  spite  of  himself,  tears  came  to  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IV 

LOVE  OR  HATE 

Thus  a  week  passed,  in  the  course  of  which  the 
heart  of  the  girl  was  torn  by  conflicting  emotions. 
Love  clashed  with  hate  and  self-pity  with  self- 
reproach.  Was  it  true — what  he  had  said?  Had 
she  administered  the  final  kick  to  a  man  who  was 
down — who,  loving  her — and  deep  down  in  her 
heart  she  knew  that  he  did  love  her- — had  come 
to  her  in  the  extremity  of  his  need  for  a  word  of 
encouragement  ? 

Now  that  he  was  gone  she  realized  how  much 
he  had  meant  to  her.  How,  in  spite  of  his  reckless 
disregard  of  life's  serious  side,  she  loved  him. 
Try  as  she  would  she  could  not  forget  the  look  of 
deep  hurt  that  dulled  his  eyes  at  her  words. 

Had  she  not  been  justified?  Had  he  not  needed 
just  that  to  bring  him  to  a  realization  of  his  re- 
sponsibilities? Had  she  not,  at  the  sacrifice  of  her 
own  love,  spurred  and  strengthened  his  purpose  to 
make  good?  Or,  had  she,  by  raising  a  barrier 
between  them,  removed  his  one  incentive  to  great 
effort? 

Over  and  over  the  girl  pondered  these  things. 

26 


Love  or  Hate  27 

One  moment  her  heart  cried  out  for  his  return, 
and  the  next  she  reiterated  her  undying  hate  for 
the  man  in  whose  power  it  was  so  sorely  to  wound 
her  with  a  word. 

And  so  she  sat  one  evening  before  an  open  fire 
in  the  library  which  had  been  the  scene  of  their 
parting.  Mechanically  she  turned  the  pages  of  a 
novel,  but  her  mind  was  elsewhere,  and  her 
eyes  lingered  upon  the  details  of  the  room. 

"He  stood  there,"  she  mused,  "and  I  here— 
and  then- — those  awful  words.  And,  oh!  the 
look  in  his  eyes  that  day  as  the  portieres  closed 
between  us — and  he  was  gone.     Where?" 

Somehow  the  idea  obsessed  her  that  he  had 
gone  to  sea.  She  pictured  him  big  and  strong  and 
brave,  battling  before  the  mast  on  some  wallowing, 
storm-hectored  trading  ship  outbound,  bearing 
him  away  into  the  melting-pot  of  strange  world- 
ways. 

Would  he  come  clean  through  the  moil,  winning 
honor  and  his  place  among  men?  And  thus 
would  he  some  day  return — to  her?  Or  would  the 
sea  claim  him  for  her  own,  roughen  him,  and  buffet 
him  about  through  the  long  years  among  queer 
Far  Eastern  hell-ports  where,  jostling  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  brutish  men  and  the  women  who  do 
not  care,  he  would  drink  deep  and  laugh  loud 
among  the  flesh-pots  of  society's  discards? 

The  uncertainty  was  terrible  to  the  girl,  and  she 
forced  her  thoughts  into  the  one  channel  in  which 
there  was  a  ray  of  comfort. 


28  The  Promise 

"At  least,'*  she  murmured,  "he  has  ceased  to 
be  a  menace  to  Charlie. " 

"Mr.  Hiram  Carmody,  miss." 

The  old  manservant  who  had  been  with  the 
Mantons  always,  stood  framed  in  the  inverted  V 
of  the  parted  portieres. 

Ethel  started.  Why  had  he  called?  During 
the  lifetime  of  her  father  the  elder  Carmody  had 
been  a  frequent  visitor  in  the  Manton  home. 

Was  it  about  Bill?  Was  he  sick?  Had  there 
been  an  accident,  and  was  he  hurt — possibly  dead? 
There  was  an  icy  grip  at  her  heart,  though  her  voice 
was  quite  firm  as  she  replied: 

"I  will  see  Mr.  Carmody  at  once,  Craddon." 

As  the  man  silently  withdrew  from  the  door- 
way a  new  thought  came  to  her. 

Could  it  be  that  Bill  was  still  in  New  York? 
That  his  going  away  had  been  an  empty  threat? 
And  was  he  now  trying  to  bring  about  a  reconcilia- 
tion through  the  medium  of  his  father?  How  she 
could  despise  him  for  that! 

Her  lips  thinned,  and  there  was  a  hint  of  for- 
mality in  her  greeting  as  she  offered  her  hand  to  the 
tall,  gray-haired  man  who  advanced  toward  her. 

"Well,  well!  Miss  Ethel,"  he  began,  "all 
alone  with  a  book  and  a  cozy  fire.  That  is  what 
I  call  solid  comfort."  He  crossed  the  room  and 
extended  his  hands  to  the  blaze. 

"It  is  a  long  time  since  j^ou  have  called,  Mr. 
Carmody. " 

"Yes.     We  old  fellows  rarely  drift  outside  the 


Love  or  Hate  29 

groove  of  our  fixed  orbit.  One  by  one  we  drop  out, 
and  as  each  one  passes  beyond  it  shortens  the  orbit 
of  the  others.  The  circle  is  always  contracting — 
never  expanding.  The  last  one  of  us  will  be  found 
in  his  dotage  never  venturing  beyond  the  circle  of 
his  own  fireside  until  he,  too,  shall  answer  the  call.  " 

The  voice  held  a  note  of  sadness  which  touched 
the  girl  deeply,  and  she  suddenly  noted  that  the 
fine  patrician  face  had  aged. 

"You  should  not  speak  of  being  old,"  she  said 
gently.  "Why,  you  are  called  the  Wizard  of 
Wall  Street." 

"A  man  is  only  as  old  as  he  feels.  Until  re- 
cently I  have  considered  myself  a  young  man. 
But  of  late  I  feel  that  I  am  losing  my  grip. " 

"Isn't  that  a  dangerous  admission?  If  it 
should  become  known  on  the  Street " 


"Ha!" — the  heavy  gray  eyebrows  met  with  a 
ferocity  which  belied  the  smile  that  curved  the  thin 
lips — "if  it  were  but  whispered  upon  the  Street  the 
wolves  would  be  at  my  throat  before  morning. 
But  they  would  have  a  fight  on  their  hands! 
However,  all  that  is  beside  the  purpose.  I  sup- 
pose yon  are  wondering  why  I  called?" 

The  girl  was  momentarily  at  a  loss  for  a  reply. 
"Why,  I —  You  know  you  are  always  welcome 
here." 

"Yes,  yes.  But,  as  you  must  have  surmised, 
I  called  with  a  definite  object  in  view.  A  matter 
that  concerns  you  and — er,  my  son. ' 

The  girl  turned  a  shade  paler. 


»» 


30  The  Promise 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  replied. 

"Nor  do  I.  I  have  come  to  you  at  the  risk  of 
being  thought  a  meddling  old  fool !  But  the  fact 
is,  I  have  several  times  lately  heard  your  name 
mentioned  in  connection  with  William's,  and 
recently  there  came  into  my  possession  this  packet 
of  letters  addressed  to  my  son  in  a  feminine  hand 
and  bearing  the  Manton  crest." 

The  girl's  face  flushed  as  she  took  the  proffered 
packet  and  waited  for  him  to  continue. 

"Fred  Manton  was  my  best  friend,"  went  on 
the  old  man,  "and  I  won't  see  harm  come  to  his 
daughter,  if  I  can  prevent  it.  You  two  may  be 
just  friends;  you  may  be  engaged — or  married, 
for  all  I  know.  My  son  never  deemed  it  worth 
while  to  take  me  into  his  confidence.  In  either 
case,  I  am  here — and  I  will  have  my  say.  I  shall 
put  myself  in  the  place  of  your  father  and  speak 
as,  I  believe,  he  would  have  spoken.  I  may  seem 
harsh  and  bitter  toward  my  own  son,  but  remem- 
ber, Miss  Ethel,  I  have  had  vastly  more  experience 
in  the  ways  of  the  world  than  you  have — and  I 
know  whereof  I  speak. 

"Slight  as  is  the  difference  between  your  ages, 
you  are  but  an  inexperienced  girl,  as  the  world 
knows  experience,  and  William  is  a  man — and  a 
man,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  who  is  no  fit  associate  for 
a  woman  like  you. 

Surprised  and  perplexed  the  girl  felt  her  anger 
rise  against  this  man.  Instinctively  she  rallied 
to  Bill's  defense: 


Love  or  Hate  31 

"He  is  not  bad  at  heart ! "  she  said  resentfully. 

"What  worse  can  you  say?"  returned  Carmody 
with  a  harsh  laugh.  ' '  Of  all  expressions  coined  to 
damn  a  man  with  faint  praise,  there  is  only  one 
more  effective:  'He  means  well. ' " 

Ethel  was  thoroughly  angry  now.  She  drew 
herself  up,  and  her  blue  eyes  darkened  as  she  faced 
him. 

"That  is  not  so!"  she  cried.  "Bill  is  not  bad 
at  heart!  And  he  does  mean  well!  Whose  fault 
is  it  that  he  has  grown  up  reckless  and  wild?  Who 
is  to  blame?  What  chance  has  he  had?  Wliat 
have  you  done  for  him?  Filled  his  pockets  with 
money  and  packed  him  off  to  school.  Filled  his 
pockets  with  money  and  sent  him  to  college. 
Filled  his  pockets  with  money  and  shipped  him 
abroad. 

"Then,  without  consulting  his  taste  or  desire, 
you  peremptorily  thrust  him  into  a  business  which 
he  loathes — on  an  office  boy's  salary  and  an  allow- 
ance out  of  all  proportion  to  his  requirements. 

"You  say  he  has  never  taken  you  into  his  con- 
fidence. Have  you  ever  invited  that  confidence? 
Have  you  ever  sought  his  companionship — even 
his  acquaintance?" 

The  man  was  astonished  at  her  vehemence. 
Uncomfortably  he  found  himself  forced  to  the 
defensive. 

"He  had  his  chance.  I  placed  him  in  the  bank 
that  he  might  learn  the  business  as  I  learned  it. 
If  he  had  had  the  right  stuff  in  him  he  would  have 


32  The  Promise 

made  good.  As  it  was,  he  attended  to  his  duties  in 
the  most  perfunctor  z  :A  superficial  manner.  He 
showed  not  the  slightest  interest  in  the  business. 
In  fact,  his  position  could  have  been  ably  filled 
by  the  veriest  gutter-snipe.  And  he  is  the  man 
who  one  day,  in  all  probability,  would  have  come 
into  control  of  the  Carmody  millions!  And  he 
would  have  scattered  them  in  a  riot  of  dissipation 
the  length  and  breadth  of  Broadway. 

1 '  But  I  have  forestalled  him.  He  is  foot-loose — 
gone,  God  knows  where,  to  follow  the  fortune  of 
adventure,  perhaps,  at  the  ends  of  the  earth.  For 
in  him,  transmitted  in  some  unaccountable  manner 
through  the  blood  of  the  gentlest,  sweetest  little 
woman  who  ever  warmed  a  heart,  is  the  restless 
spirit  of  the  roistering,  fighting  McKims. " 

"Is  it  the  boy's  fault  that  he  is  a  McKim?" 
returned  the  girl  a  little  sharply.  "Who  chose  his 
mother?  Of  all  men  you  should  be  the  last  to 
speak  disparagingly  of  a  McKim.  Turn  the  pages 
of  history  and  you  will  find  written  large  in  the 
story  of  the  upbuilding  of  nations  the  name  of 
McKim.  Carmody  gold  is  the  cabala  of  Carmody 
suzerainty.  But  the  McKim  name  has  been 
carved  deep  in  the  annals  of  nations  by  sheer 
force  of  the  personalities  behind  blades  of  naked 
steel. 

"Even  now  the  crying  world-need  for  men — big 
men — is  as  great  as  in  the  days  when  the  fighting 
McKims  deserted  their  hearthstones  to  answer  the 
call  of  the  falchion's  clash  or  the  cannon's  roar. 


Love  or  Hate  33 

And  some  day  you  will  realize  this — when  your 
bank  messenger  makes  good!" 

The  old  man  regarded  her  with  a  look  of  admira- 
tion. 

"You  love  him!"  he  said  quietly. 

The  girl  started.  Her  eyes  flashed  and  the 
play  of  the  firelight  gave  an  added  touch  of  crimson 
to  her  cheeks. 

"I  do  not  love  him!  I — I  hate  him!"  Her 
voice  faltered,  and  the  man  saw  that  she  was  very 
near  to  tears. 

"A  strange  hate,  this,  Miss  Ethel.  A  strange 
and  a  most  dangerous  hate  for  a  girl  to  hold 
against  a  man  who  is  a  thief. " 

3 


CHAPTER  V 


thief! 


"A  MAN  who  is  a  thief!"  The  words  fell  dis- 
tinctly from  Carmody's  lips  with  the  studied  quiet 
of  desperation.  Ethel  stared  wild-eyed  at  the 
speaker,  and  in  the  frozen  silence  of  the  room  her 
tiny  fists  doubled  until  the  knuckles  whitened. 

Noting  the  effect  upon  the  girl,  he  continued, 
speaking  more  rapidly  now  that  the  dreaded  word 
had  been  uttered. 

"I  had  no  wish  to  tell  you  this  thing.  It  is  a 
secret  I  would  gladly  have  kept  locked  within  my 
own  breast.  But  I  came  here  this  evening  with 
a  purpose — to  save,  in  spite  of  herself,  if  need  be, 
the  daughter  of  my  dead  friend  from  a  life  of  suffer- 
ing which  would  inevitably  fall  to  the  lot  of  any 
pure-hearted  woman  who  linked  her  life  with  that 
of  an  unscrupulous  scoundrel,  in  whom  even  com- 
mon decency  is  dead,  if,  indeed,  it  ever  lived." 

"He  is  not  a  thief!  He—-"  began  Ethel  vehe- 
mently, but  the  man  interrupted  her. 

"Wait  until  you  have  heard  the  facts.  Last 
week,  on  Friday,  there  was  entrusted  to  my  son's 
care  for  delivery  a  heavy  manila  envelope  con- 

34 


"Thief"  35 

taining  fifty  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  negotiable 
bonds.  It  was  a  matter  of  vital  importance  that 
these  be  delivered  within  a  specified  time.  Ignor- 
ing this  fact,  he  pocketed  the  bonds,  and,  in 
company  with  a  number  of  his  acquaintances, 
indulged  in  a  drunken  spree  which  culminated 
after  midnight  in  a  disgraceful  street  scene  in  the 
Broadway  theatre  district. 

"The  following  morning,  when  I  confronted 
him,  he  flouted  me  to  my  face,  whereupon  I 
virtually  disinherited  him.  Not  wishing  to  turn 
him  away  penniless,  I  handed  him  a  check  for  a 
considerable  amount  which  he  saw  fit  to  destroy 
melodramatically  in  my  presence.  Upon  my  re- 
quest for  the  return  of  the  securities,  he  handed 
me  an  envelope  identical  with  that  in  which  the 
bonds  had  been  placed.  I  carried  the  packet  to  the 
bank  where  it  was  opened  and  found  to  contain  not 
the  bonds — but  those  letters. 

"To  avoid  a  scandal  I  made  good  the  loss.  I 
learned  later,  through  investigation,  that  upon 
leaving  home  he  came  directly  to  this  house,  where 
he  remained  for  upward  of  a  half -hour. 

"Further  than  this  I  know  nothing  of  his  move- 
ments except  that  he  reentered  the  taxi  and  pro- 
ceeded down-town.  At  Thirty-Fourth  Street,  where 
the  chauffeur  slowed  down  for  instructions,  he 
found  the  cab  empty." 

"And  these  are  the  facts  upon  which  you  base 
your  accusation?"  asked  the  girl  coldly.  "You, 
his  own  father!" 


36  The  Promise 

"To  an  unbiased  mind  the  evidence  allows  but 
one  interpretation." 

"But  his  eyes!  Oh,  can't  you  see  there  has 
been  some  mistake?  His  eyes  are  not  the  eyes  of 
a  thief!" 

"There  has  been  no  mistake.  A  most  thorough 
search  of  the  premises  has  failed  to  disclose  a  trace 
of  the  missing  securities.  In  his  desk  from  which 
he  took  the  substituted  packet  were  found  several 
similar  envelopes,  but  these  contained  only  worth- 
less rubbish' — newspaper  clippings  of  sporting 
events  and  the  like. 

"No,  Miss  Ethel,  when  William  Carmody  left 
my  house  that  morning  he  carried  with  him  those 
bonds.  And  he  came  here,  knowing  that  he  was  a 
thief,  with  his  pocket  bulging  with  plunder ! 

"As  I  told  you,  I  know  nothing  of  the  relations 
existing  between  you  and  my  son.  I  only  hope 
that  he  has  gone  forever  out  of  your  life,  as  he  has 
gone  out  of  mine. " 

The  light  died  out  of  the  girl's  eyes  and  her 
voice  sounded  strangely  dull  as  she  replied: 

"Yes,  he  has  gone  out  of  my  life — maybe  for- 
ever. He  came  to  me  here,  to  tell  me  that  he  was 
going  away  to  make  good.  And  I — I  was  not  big 
enough  to  see  it.  I  sent  him  away  with  a  sneer. 
Bill  is  no  thief.  For  what  he  has  been  you  are  to 
blame — you  and  the  Carmody  money.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  has  a  fair  chance.  He  has  left 
New  York  the  man  you  made  him.  He  will  return 
the  man  he  makes  himself.    Oh !   If — if  I  only — ■ —  " 


-Thief"  37 


!(' 


'There,  there,  Miss  Ethel,  your  loyalty  is 
admirable,  if  misplaced " 

"Don't  speak  to  me  of  loyalty!  I  have  been  as 
narrow  and  as  mean  as- — as  you  have! " 

"My  dear  girl,  you  are  overwrought.  The 
sooner  we  learn  that  William  Carmody  has  ceased 
to  exist  the  better  it  will  be  for  both  of  us.  I 
bid  you  good-night." 

The  girl  sank  into  the  depths  of  her  big  chair 
and  watched  the  sputtering  little  jet-flames  lick 
futilely  at  the  artificial  logs  of  the  fireplace. 
Believing  herself  alone,  she  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  footsteps  hurrying  noisily  across  the 
room.  The  next  instant  a  tousle-headed  boy  with 
eyes  ablaze  was  at  her  side  working  her  hands  like 
pump-handles. 

"By  Jimmy,  Eth,  you're  a  brick — the  wa}7-  you 
gave  it  to  him!  You  bet  I'll  tell  Bill  how  you 
stuck  up  for  him. " 

"Charlie  Manton!  You  were  Hstening — eaves- 
dropping." 

' '  I  didn't !  I  wasn't !  I  mean  I  couldn't  help  hear- 
ing !  The  door  of  the  den  was  open  and  I  was  in 
there  studying.     Old  man  Carmody  is  an  old  liar ! ' ' 

"Charlie!" 

"Well,  he  is,  and  you  know  it!  I  hate  him! 
You  bet  he  wouldn't  dare  call  Bill  a  thief  to  his 
face !  Bill  could  lick  forty-seven  like  him  with  one 
hand  tied  behind  his  back.  Bill  is  square.  He 
wouldn't  swipe  a  million  dollars — let  alone  a 
rotten,  measly  fifty  thousand!" 


38  The  Promise 

"Charlie  Manton!  What  kind  of  talk  is  that? 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed!" 

"Well,  I  ain't— so  there!  And  I'm  Bill's 
friend,  and  I  ain't  afraid  to  say  so,  either.  You  do 
love  Bill — and  you  know  it!  You  can  claim  you 
hate  him  till  you're  black  in  the  face,  but  you 
can't  fool  me  !  What  did  you  stick  up  for  him  for 
if  you  hated  him  ?  I  bet  old  man  Carmody  swiped 
the  bonds  himself!" 

"Stop  right  there!  Aren't  you  ashamed  to 
speak  so  disrespectfully  of  Mr.  Carmody?  He 
was  an  old  friend  of  father's. " 

"I  don't  care  if  he  was.  I'm  an  old  friend  of 
Bill's,  too.  And  Bill  ain't  a  thief,  no  matter  what 
he  says!" 

"You  go  to  bed  this  minute.  I  am  surprised 
and  mortified  to  think  that  you  would  be  so 
contemptible  as  to  listen  to  other  people's  affairs. " 

"'Taint  any  worse  than  lying!" 

The  boy  stamped  angrily  from  the  room,  and  the 
girl  sat  long  by  the  fire  and,  one  by  one,  fed  letters 
to  the  flames. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  CROOKED  GAME 

"Clickity-CLICK,  clickity-click,  clickity-click, " 
the  monotonous  song  of  the  rails  told  off  the 
miles  as  the  heavy  train  rushed  westward  between 
the  endless  cornfields  of  a  flat  middle  State.  To 
the  well-built  athletic  young  man  who  was  one 
of  the  four  occupants  of  the  little  end-room, 
smoking  compartment,  the  outlook  was  any- 
thing but  cheerful. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  long  rows  of 
shriveled  husks,  from  which  the  season's  crop  of 
yellow  ears  had  been  torn,  flapped  dejectedly 
against  their  dried  and  broken  stalks.  Here  and 
there  a  square  of  rich,  black  loam,  freshly  turned, 
bespoke  the  forehanded  farmer;  while  in  the 
fields  of  his  neighbors  straggling  groups  of  cattle 
and  hogs  gleaned  half-heartedly  in  the  standing 
roughage. 

1 '  Not  much  for  scenery,  is  it  ? "  The  offensively 
garrulous  passenger  directed  his  remarks  to  the 
young  man,  who  abstractedly  surveyed  the  land- 
scape. "No,  sir,"  he  continued,  "you've  got  to 
go  West  for  Scenery.     Ever  been  West?" 

39 


40  The  Promise 

The  young  man  nodded  without  removing  his 
gaze  from  the  window. 

"I  live  in  Colorado, "  the  other  persisted. 
"Went  out  there  for  my  health — and  I  stayed. 
Johnson's  my  name.     I'm  in  the  mining  business. " 

His  eyes  swept  the  compartment  to  include 
the  others  in  the  too  evident  geniality  of  their 
glance. 

' '  Now  that  we're  all  acquainted, "  he  ventured- — 
"how  about  a  little  game  of  seven-up,  just  to  pass 
away  the  time?     How  about  you,  dad?" 

Thus  flippantly  he  addressed  the  ruddy-faced, 
middle-aged  gentleman  in  gray  tweeds,  whose 
attention  was  apparently  concentrated  upon  the 
lengthening  ash  of  his  cigar. 

With  enthusiasm  undampened  by  the  curtness 
of  the  latter's  refusal,  he  turned  to  the  remaining 
passenger- — a  youth  upon  whose  lip  sprouted  a 
tenderly  pruned  mustache,  so  obviously  new  that 
it  looked  itchy. 

"How  about  you,  captain?"  The  top-heavy 
youth  closed  his  magazine  and  unlocked  a  brain- 
cell. 

"I  don't  mind."  He  ostentatiously  consulted 
a  very  gold  watch.  "Must  be  in  Chicago  this 
evening,"  he  muttered  quite  audibly,  pulling  a 
ten,  twent,  thirt  frown  that  caused  his  labial 
foliage  to  rustle  with  importance. 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  card  upon  which  the 
ink  was  scarcely  dry  and  handed  it  to  the  efferj 
vescent  Johnson,  who  read  aloud: 


The  Crooked  Game  41 


Mr.  LINCOLN  S.  TARBEL 

Municipal  Investigator 


"You  see, "  explained  its  owner,  "it  has  reached 
the  ears  of  the  managing  editor  of  my  paper  in 
South  Bend  that  vice  in  various  forms  flourishes 
in  Chicago!  Thereupon  he  immediately  sent  for 
me  and  ordered  a  sweeping  investigation. " 

Further  information  was  forestalled  by  the 
entrance  of  a  suave-mannered  individual  who 
introduced  himself  as  a  cigar  salesman,  and  who 
was  readily  induced  to  take  a  hand  in  the  game. 

The  lightning-like  glances  that  passed  between 
the  newcomer  and  the  Western  Mr.  Johnson,  while 
entirely  unnoted  by  the  investigator  of  municipal 
vice,  aroused  the  interest  of  the  athletic  young 
man  to  the  point  of  assenting  to  make  the  fourth. 
Here,  evidently,  was  something  about  to  be  pulled 
off,  and  he  decided  to  be  actively  among  those 
present. 

The  game  progressed  through  several  unevent- 
ful deals.  Suddenly  Johnson,  scrutinizing  a  hand 
dealt  him  by  the  cigar  salesman,  emitted  a  low 
whistle. 

"If  we  were  playing  poker  now  I'd  have  some- 
thing to  say!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  I've  got  some  poker  hand 
myself,"   opined   the   dealer.     "Discard   one,    to 


42  The  Promise 

make  a  five-card  hand,  and  I  bet  you  five  dollars 
I  beat  you. " 

"You're  on!"  Each  produced  a  bill  which  he 
handed  to  the  athletic  young  man  to  hold. 

Three  eights  and  a  pair  of  deuces, ' '  boasted  the 
Westerner,  exposing  the  full  hand  upon  the  board. 

"Beats  three  kings,"  admitted  the  other,  rue- 
fully laying  down  his  hand.  The  winner  pocketed 
the  money  with  an  exaggerated  wink  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  newspaper  youth  who  had  been  an 
interested  spectator. 

The  game  progressed,  and  before  many  deals 
another  challenge  was  passed  and  accepted  be- 
tween the  two.  This  time  it  was  the  salesman  who 
profited  to  the  extent  of  twenty-five  dollars  which 
he  received  from  the  stakeholder  with  the  remark 
that  he  would  bet  his  whole  roll  on  a  jack  full  any 
old  day. 

The  elderly  gentleman  smoked  in  silence  and 
amused  himself  by  mentally  cataloguing  the  players. 
Suddenly  his  attention  became  riveted. 

What  'he  saw  jarred  harshly  upon  his  estimate 
of  the  athletic  young  man  who,  at  the  conclusion 
of  his  deal,  dexterously  slipped  some  cards  be- 
neath the  table  from  his  pile  of  tricks,  then,  bunch- 
ing the  pack,  passed  it  to  the  Westerner  for  the 
next  deal. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  exposing  this  cheap  bit 
of  knavery  when  the  young  man  glanced  in  his 
direction.  Something  in  the  steady  gaze  of  the 
gray  eyes,  though  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not 


The  Crooked  Game  43 

have  told  what,  stayed  his  purpose,  and  he  settled 
into  his  seat,  more  puzzled  than  before. 

"If  it  had  been  any  one  of  the  others,"  he 
thought  to  himself;  "and  then  to  think  that  he 
turns  around  and  with  a  look  virtually  makes  me  a 
party  to  his  tuppenny  trickery!" 

His  reflections  were  cut  short  by  a  sharp  excla- 
mation from  the  investigator  of  vice  who,  in  spite  of 
his  desire  to  appear  composed,  was  evidently 
laboring  under  great  excitement. 

"I'll  bet  twenty-five  dollars  I've  got  the  best 
poker  hand  this  time!"  He  was  staring  at  his 
tight-gripped  cards.  Johnson  looked  his  hand 
over- — and  with  a  careless: 

"Here's  where  I  get  even,"  tossed  the  amount 
to  the  athletic  young  man,  who  laid  his  cards 
upon  the  table.     The  cigar  salesman  broke  in: 

"Hold  on!  I'm  in  on  this,  too!  Got  a  pretty 
fair  hand  myself.  And  just  to  show  you  sports 
I'm  game,  I'll  make  it  a  hundred. " 

He  passed  a  handful  of  bills  to  the  stakeholder 
and  glared  defiantly  at  the  newspaper  person  who 
was  in  the  act  of  returning  a  bill-fold  to  his  pocket. 

"Why,  that  is  all  I've  got!"  he  gasped,  "and 
it's  expense-money!" 

"Well,  of  course,"  the  other  replied,  "if  you 
don't  care  to  see  my  hand,  and  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  it's  more  than  a  middling  good  one " 

"I'll  bet"' — the  hand  that  extracted  the  neatly 
folded  bills  from  the  leather  case  shook  and  the 
voice  rose  to  a  ludicrous  falsetto- — "I've  got  you 


44  The  Promise 

beat,  and  if  I  had  any  more  money  with  me  I'd 
come  back  at  you. " 

"You've  got  a  watch  there,"  remarked  Mr. 
Johnson.  "Let's  see  it.  I  ain't  going  to  stay  for 
the  raise.  My  three  sevens  don't  look  as  good  as 
they  did." 

"I  paid  fifty  dollars  for  it!"  piped  the  youth, 
passing  the  watch  across  the  board.  Both  men 
examined  it. 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  anything  about  watches, 
but  I  '11  take  your  word  for  it.  Stick  her  up — here's 
the  fifty. " 

"I've  got  four  aces!"  squealed  the  reporter  as 
he  spread  them  out  face  upward.  He  stared 
wildly  at  the  other,  and  his  hands  made  wet  marks 
where  they  touched  the  board. 

"No  good,"  remarked  his  opponent  blandly. 
"Mine's  hearts — all  in  a  row,  with  the  jack  at  the 
top. "  One  by  one  he  laid  them  down- — a  straight 
flush.  South  Bend  stared  incredulously  at  the 
cards. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Stakeholder,"  laughed  the 
salesman,  "pass  over  the  kale.  Just  slip  out  a  five 
for  your  trouble. " 

"Just  a  minute.  "  The  voice  of  the  stakeholder 
was  quiet  and  his  lips  smiled.  The  two  across 
the  board  bristled  aggressively  and  the  plucked 
one  sniffled. 

"Well" — there  was  an  ugly  note  in  the  cigar 
salesman's  voice- — "a  straight  flush  beats  four 
aces,  don't  it?" 


The  Crooked  Game  45 

"Oh,  yes,  there  is  no  question  as  to  that.  Are 
these  the  same  cards  we  have  been  using?" 

"Of  course  they  are!  What  do  you  mean?" 
asked  the  dealer. 

"Oh,  nothing.  I  just  wanted  to  know.  Our 
friend  here  has  the  right  to  know  that  he  got  a 
square  deal.  Count  the  cards."  The  look  of 
apprehension  on  the  faces  of  the  two  men  faded 
into  smiles. 

"Sure  thing.  That's  fair  enough,"  acquiesced 
the  dealer,  proceeding  to  gather  the  cards  from  the 
board.  Slowly  and  deliberately  he  counted ; ' '  fifty, 
fifty-one,  fifty-two,"  he  finished.  "Here,  captain, 
count  them  yourself."  He  handed  them  to  the 
youth,  who  mechanically  ran  them  through. 

"They  are  all  here,"  he  admitted. 

"Now,  that  is  funny,"  smiled  the  stakeholder, 
"because  last  deal  I  dropped  several  cards  onto 
the  floor.     This  gentleman  saw  me  do  it. " 

He  nodded  toward  the  elderly  gentleman,  who 
was  now  keenly  interested,  and  reached  under  the 
table. 

"See — here  they  are.  And,  by  the  way,  the 
nine  and  ten  of  hearts  are  among  them.  And 
now,  you  cheap  crooks,"  he  added  as  he  flung  a 
handful  of  bills  onto  the  board,  "take  your  money 
and  beat  it!" 

The  two  men  opposite  looked  for  an  instant  into 
the  narrowing  gray  eyes,  noted  a  certain  tightening 
of  the  square  jaw  and  the  clenching  of  a  pair  of 
very  capable  fists,  and  tarried  not  upon  further 


46  The  Promise 

orders.  Sweeping  the  money  into  their  pockets 
they  quit  the  compartment,  casting  venomous  back 
glances  toward  the  young  man  whose  lips  could 
smile  while  his  eyes  threatened. 

"Here  is  yours,  kid.  And  let  me  put  you  wise 
to  something.  The  first  thing  you  do  when  you 
strike  Chicago,  buy  a  ticket  to  South  Bend. 
They  are  waiting  for  you  in  the  wicked  town' — 
they  can  see  you  coming.  The  next  ones  will 
spring  a  real  live  game,  green  goods,  or  wire  tap- 
ping. They  will  roll  you  before  you  can  locate 
a  rescue  mission.  About  the  only  form  of  vice 
they  will  give  you  time  to  investigate  will  be  what 
the  taxi  boy  does  to  you. 

"The  cold-deck  stunt  you  just  fell  for,  sonny,  is 
so  old  it  totters.  It  is  the  identical  trick  that 
started  the  coolness  between  Brutus  and  Julius 
Caesar. " 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE   WRECK 


The  early  darkness  of  late  autumn  settled  over 
the  flat  country.  Tiny  lights  twinkled  from  dis- 
tant farmhouses  as  the  Limited  plowed  through 
the  night. 

The  athletic  young  man  continued  to  stare 
moodily  out  of  the  window. 

The  black  expanse  of  country  became  more 
thickly  studded  with  lights.  They  flashed  in  the 
foreground  in  regular  constellations  as  the  train 
whizzed  with  undiminished  speed  past  tall  block 
towers  and  tiny  suburban  stations. 

Long  parallel  rows,  narrowing  to  a  point  under 
a  distant  hazy  nimbus,  marked  the  course  of  the 
outreaching  arteries  of  a  great  city.  Warning 
bells  clanged  peremptorily  at  the  lowered  gates 
of  grade  crossings. 

The  car  wheels  crashed  noisily  over  an  ever- 
increasing  number  of  frogs  and  switch  points,  an 
occasional  brilliantly  illuminated  trolley  car  crept 
slowly  over  its  rails,  and  the  hundreds  of  green  and 
red  and  yellow  lights  of  the  widening  railroad  yards 
lent  a  variety  of  color  to  the  scene. 

47 


48  The  Promise 

That  infallible  harbinger  of  an  approaching 
terminal,  the  colored  porter,  had  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  whisk-broom  in  hand,  when- — suddenly — ■ 
there  was  a  grinding  jar;  the  heavy  coach  trembled 
through  its  length,  and  from  forward  came  a 
muffled  roar  followed  by  the  tearing  crash  of  riven 
metal. 

The  car  reared  upward — higher  and  higher  it 
climbed  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  terrible 
crunching  grind  that  proclaims  undirected  power 
and  benumbs  the  brain  with  the  horrid  possibilities 
of  energy  uncontrolled.  When  almost  perpendicu- 
lar the  sleeper  toppled  and  crashed  sidewise  across 
other  tracks  at  right  angles  to  its  course. 

New  sounds  supplanted  the  mighty  noise  of 
tearing  and  rending- — little  sounds — the  sharp 
jangle  of  smashing  glass,  and  the  thin  wail  of  an 
infant.  These  were  borne  to  the  young  man's 
ears  as  from  a  distance. 

It  was  very  dark  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  great 
weight  which  seemed  to  be  crushing  the  breath 
from  his  body.  He  raised  his  arms  and  tore  at  the 
thing  on  his  chest.  It  yielded  slightly  to  the 
pressure  of  his  hands  but  remained  immovable. 
He  reached  above  it  and  encountered  metal- — a 
large  iron  cylinder  with  projecting  pipes  twisted 
and  bent.  Frantically  he  tore  at  the  weight, 
exerting  to  the  utmost  the  mighty  strength  of  his 
shoulders.  Inch  by  inch  he  worked  it  sidewise, 
using  the  pipes  as  levers  until  at  length  it  rolled 
free  and  settled  with  a  crash  among  the  wreckage 


The  Wreck  49 

at  his  side.  The  other— the  thing  that  yielded— 
he  lifted  easily  and  sat  up,  filling  his  exhausted 
lungs  with  great  drafts  of  cool  air. 

His  head  ached  terribly.  He  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead  and  withdrew  it  wet  and 
dripping.  He  struck  a  match  and  as  the  tiny 
flame  flickered  and  went  out  he  struck  another 
and  another. 

At  his  side  lay  the  torso  of  the  young  reporter, 
his  head  mashed  by  the  heavy  water-cooler.  He 
shuddered  as  he  realized  that  this  was  the  thing 
he  had  lifted  from  his  chest. 

In  the  opposite  corner  the  elderly  man  struggled 
to  release  his  arm  from  the  grip  of  a  wedging  timber. 
The  body  of  the  porter,  doubled  grotesquely, 
partially  protruded  from  under  a  seat. 

His  last  match  died  out  and  he  crept  to  the 
side  of  the  imprisoned  man.  A  heave  at  the 
timber  satisfied  him  as  to  the  futility  of  ac- 
complishing anything  in  the  darkness  and  with- 
out tools. 

He  stood  erect  and  groped  for  the  door  of  the 
compartment  which  he  located  in  the  ceiling  almost 
directly  above  him.  Drawing  himself  through  the 
aperture,  he  made  the  narrow  passage,  but  such 
was  the  position  of  the  car  that  it  was  only  with 
the  greatest  difficulty  he  succeeded  in  worming  his 
way  along,  using  the  dividing  wall  as  a  floor. 

He  gained  the  body  of  the  coach,  and  from  the 
darkness  about  him  came  groans  and  curses 
mingled  with  great  gasping  sobs,  and  that  most 

4 


50  The  Promise 

terrible  of  all  sounds,  the  shriek  of  a  woman  in  the 
night-time. 

He  located  a  window  and,  smashing  the  glass 
with  his  elbow,  crawled  through. 

From  every  direction  men  were  running  toward 
the  scene  of  the  wreck,  calling  to  each  other  in 
hoarse,  throaty  bellows,  while  here  and  there  in  the 
darkness  lanterns  flashed. 

Sick  and  dizzy  he  lowered  himself  to  the  ground 
and  staggered  across  some  tracks.  He  snatched 
a  lantern  from  the  hand  of  a  bewildered  switchman 
and  stumbled  again  toward  the  overturned  car. 

Others  swarmed  upon  it.  He  heard  the  blows 
of  axes  and  the  smashing  of  glass.  Already  an 
army  of  men  were  engaged  in  the  work  of  rescue. 

Inert  forms  were  passed  through  windows  into 
waiting  arms  to  be  deposited  in  long,  ghastly  rows 
upon  the  cinders  of  the  road-bed,  under  the  flar- 
ing torches.  A  cold,  drizzling  rain  was  falling  and 
the  smell  of  smoke  was  in  the  air. 

A  group  of  firemen  hurried  past  carrying  hand- 
extinguishers.  The  lantern-light  gleamed  wetly 
upon  their  black  rubber  coats  and  metal  helmets, 
from  under  the  brims  of  which  their  set  faces 
showed  grimly  white.  Far  up  the  track  an  ambu- 
lance gong  clanged  frantically. 

The  young  man  reentered  the  coach  through  a 
window  and  made  his  way  slowly  toward  the 
smoking  compartment,  pushing  his  lantern  before 
him.     Reaching  the  door,  he  peered  over  the  edge. 

Some  one  was  kneeling  beside  the  elderly  man, 


The  Wreck  51 

working  swiftly  by  the  narrow  light  of  an  electric 
pocket  lamp.  As  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to 
the  dim  light  of  the  interior,  he  realized  that  the 
elderly  man  seemed  to  be  resisting  the  efforts  of 
the  other  who  knelt  upon  his  unpinioned  arm. 
From  between  the  lips,  which  were  forced  wide 
apart,  protruded  the  ends  of  a  handkerchief — he 
was  gagged! 

The  hands  of  the  kneeling  man  worked  rapidly, 
but  not  in  the  prying  loose  of  the  timber  which  lay 
across  the  other's  arm.  From  the  side  pocket  of 
his  coat,  where  it  evidently  had  been  hurriedly 
thrust,  dangled  a  watch  chain  which  the  young 
man  recognized  as  belonging  to  the  dead  reporter. 

Suddenly  the  atrocity  of  the  situation  dawned 
upon  him.  He  had  heard  of  such  things,  of  the 
ghouls  who  haunt  the  scenes  of  great  disaster, 
preying  upon  the  bodies  of  the  dead — robbing  the 
helpless. 

With  a  curse  he  seized  the  wirebound  railway 
lantern.  At  the  sound  the  man  looked  up — it  was 
the  cigar  salesman.  The  young  man  swung  the 
weapon  with  all  his  might.  It  cut  the  air  in  a 
descending  arc,  but  the  other  avoided  the  blow 
and  the  heavy  lantern  crashed  against  the  wall  and 
went  out. 

Without  an  instant's  hesitation  he  dived  through 
the  opening  and  met  the  fiend  as  he  was  rising  to 
his  feet.  Together  they  rolled  among  the  wreck- 
age. While  no  match  for  his  antagonist  in  size, 
the  pickpocket  was  tough  and  wiry  and  apparently 


52  The  Promise 

uninjured.  He  fought  viciously,  with  the  violence 
of  desperation. 

The  athlete  could  hear  the  voice  of  the  elderly 
man,  who  with  his  free  hand  had  torn  the  gag 
from  his  mouth,  roaring  encouragement.  He 
received  a  stinging  blow  on  the  cheek  from  which 
the  warm  blood  gushed  instantly.  Knucks,  he 
thought,  the  cur! 

Suddenly  his  groping  hand  came  in  contact  with 
the  other's  throat  just  above  the  rim  of  his  collar. 
Instantly  his  fingers  closed  about  yielding  flesh, 
their  ends  biting  deep  between  the  muscles. 

As  the  clutch  tightened  the  man  redoubled  his 
efforts.  His  body  writhed  and  he  lashed  out 
furiously  with  hands  and  feet.  Blows  rained  upon 
the  young  man's  head  but  he  burrowed  close, 
shielding  his  face — and  always  his  grip  tightened — 
the  finger  ends  drawing  closer  and  closer  together. 

He  was  only  half -conscious  now  and  the  blows 
ceased  to  hurt.  He  experienced  a  sense  of  falling 
from  a  great  height.  His  subconscious  mind  con- 
centrated upon  one  idea — to  maintain  his  hold. 
He  must  grip  tighter  and  ever  tighter. 

The  other  ceased  to  struggle  and  lay  limp 
beneath  his  body,  but  of  this  he  knew  nothing. 
The  muscles  of  his  arms  were  rigid,  the  clamped 
fingers,  nearly  together  now,  were  locked,  and 
all  the  world  was  a  blank. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


NEW  FRIENDS 


William  Carmody  opened  his  eyes  to  a  sense  of 
drowsy  contentment  and  well-being.  That  the 
elegantly  appointed  room  over  which  his  glance 
traveled  was  not  his  room,  disturbed  him  not  at 
all. 

He  realized  that  his  head  was  heavily  bandaged 
and  that  the  white-capped,  linen-clad  young 
woman  at  the  window  was  a  nurse.  He  watched 
her  fingers  move  swiftly  and  surely  in  the  fashion- 
ing of  a  small  round  of  needlework. 

Her  face  was  turned  from  him  but  somehow  he 
knew  that  she  was  young  and,  in  a  dreamy  sort 
of  way,  hoped  she  was  pretty.  He  thought  of 
attracting  her  attention  but  decided  to  prolong 
the  suspense — the  chances  were  against  it — so 
many  girls  are  not. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  to  think.  The 
fact  that  he  was  in  a  strange  room  with  his  head 
swathed  in  bandages,  and  that  a  young  and 
possibly  pretty  nurse  sat  at  the  window,  evidently 
for  the  purpose  of  ministering  to  him,  suggested  a 
hospital. 

53 


54  The  Promise 

Young  Carmody  had  never  been  in  a  hospital, 
but  the  atmosphere  of  this  room  did  not  in  any 
way  conform  to  his  rather  vague  notion  of  what  a 
hospital  should  be.  There  was  no  long  row  of 
white  beds  all  just  alike,  nor  white  walls,  nor  tiled 
floors  over  which  people  tip-toed  to  and  fro  and 
talked  in  hurried,  low- voiced  tones;  nor  was  the 
air  laden  with  the  smell  of  drugs  which  he  had 
always  associated  in  his  mind  with  such  places. 
He  must  ask  the  nurse. 

He  was  so  drowsily  comfortable  that  it  was  with 
an  effort  he  opened  his  eyes.  A  rebellious  lock  of 
hair  strayed  from  under  her  cap  as  she  leaned 
over  her  work.  The  sunlight  caught  it  and 
through  the  rich  threads  of  its  length  shot  tiny 
glints  of  gold. 

' '  Ethel ! ' '  The  name  sprang  involuntarily  from 
his  lips  and  even  as  he  spoke  he  smiled  at  the 
thought.  The  girl  laid  aside  her  work  and  crossed 
to  the  bed. 

"You  called?"  she  asked,  and  the  man  realized 
vaguely  that  her  voice  was  low  and  very  pleasant. 

"Yes — that  is,  no — I  mean,  you  are  pretty, 
aren't  you?"  He  smiled  frankly  up  at  her,  and 
somehow  the  smile  was  contagious — she  even 
blushed  slightly. 

"You  must  excuse  me  this  time, "  he  continued, 
"I  must  have  been  thinking  out  loud.  " 

"You  seem  to  be  a — well,  a  rather  abrupt  young 
man,"  she  smiled.  "But  you  must  not  try  to 
think- — yet.     And  my  name  is  not  Ethel. " 


New  Friends  55 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  You  can't  help  that,  you 
know — I  mean,  I  think  your  name  is  very  pretty — 
whatever  it  is,"  he  floundered.  "The  truth  is,  I 
don't  seem  to  be  able  to  say  what  I  do  mean.  But 
really  I  am  not  a  fool,  although  I  don't  suppose 
you  will  ever  believe  it. " 

"There,  you  have  talked  quite  enough.  The 
doctor  said  you  must  rest  and  not  get  excited." 
She  smoothed  the  covers  with  little  pats  of  her 
soft  hands. 

"But  what  I  want  to  know,"  he  persisted,  with 
a  frown  of  perplexity,  "is,  where  am  I?" 

"You  are  all  right,"  she  soothed.  "You  are 
here." 

"But  why  am  I  here?" 

"Because.  Now  go  to  sleep  like  a  good  boy. 
The  doctor  will  be  here  before  long  and  he  will  hold 
me  responsible  for  your  condition." 

Oddly  enough  her  answers  seemed  eminently 
sufficient  and  satisfactory,  and  he  closed  his  eyes 
and  slept  contentedly. 

Hours  later  he  was  awakened  by  the  opening  of 
a  door. 

A  tall,  dark  man,  with  a  brown  beard  neatly 
trimmed  to  a  point,  entered  closely  followed  by  an 
elderly  man  who  carried  his  arm  in  a  sling,  and 
whom  young  Carmody  recognized  as  his  fellow- 
passenger  of  the  smoker. 

At  once  the  whole  train  of  recent  events  flashed 
through  his  brain :  the  wild  escapade  on  Broadway, 
the  scene  with  his  father,  his  parting  with  Ethel 


56  The  Promise 

Manton,  the  wreck,  and  his  fight  in  the  dark — each 
in  its  proper  sequence. 

He  was  very  wide  awake  now  and  watched  the 
brown-bearded  man  eagerly  as  he  picked  up  a  chart 
from  the  table  and  scrutinized  it  minutely. 

"How  is  the  head?"  the  man  asked,  with  his 
fingers  on  the  pulse. 

"Fine,  doctor.  Wouldn't  know  I  had  one  if  it 
were  not  for  these  bandages.  And  your  arm,  sir  ? " 
he  added,  with  a  smile  of  recognition  toward  the 
elderly  man. 

"Doing  fairly,  thank  you.  It  is  broken,  but 
our  friend  here  thinks  it  will  come  along  all  right. " 

The  doctor,  with  a  nod  of  approval  returned  the 
watch  to  his  pocket  and  was  preparing  to  leave 
when  his  patient  detained  him  with  a  question. 

' '  I  have  not  been  able  to  locate  myself.  This  is 
not  a  hospital,  is  it?" 

1 '  Hardly, ' '  smiled  the  other, ' '  although  it  answers 
the  purpose  admirably.  This  is  the  Brownstone 
Hotel." 

"With  rooms  at  twenty  per ! "  gasped  the  invalid. 
"Doctor,  some  one  has  blundered.  After  buying 
my  railroad  ticket  I  had  just  four  dollars  left,  and 
no  chance  in  the  world  of  getting  hold  of  any  more 
until  I  connect  with  a  job. " 

The  men  laughed. 

"I  must  be  going, "  said  the  doctor.  "You  two 
can  chat  for  a  while.  Don't  tire  yourself  out, 
young  man,  and  in  a  day  or  two  you  will  be  fit 
as  a  fiddle.     Wish  I  had  your   physique!     That 


New  Friends  57 

system  of  3'ours  is  a  natural  shock  absorber.  We 
run  across  them  once  in  a  long  while1 — half-killed 
one  day  and  back  the  next  hunting  for  more  on  the 
rebound." 

At  the  door  he  paused:  "Take  care  of  yourself, 
eat  anything  that  looks  good  to  you,  smoke  if  you 
want  to,  talk,  read,  sleep,  and  in  the  morning  we  will 
let  you  get  up  and  stretch  your  legs.     Good  by!" 

"Some  doctor,  that,"  laughed  the  patient. 
1 '  Does  a  man  good  just  to  hear  him  talk.  Most  of 
them  go  away  leaving  the  patient  guessing  whether 
the  next  visit  will  be  from  them  or  the  undertaker 
— and  rather  hoping  for  the  latter.  But  with  this 
fellow  the  professional  man  is  swallowed  up  in 
the  human  being — he  fairly  radiates  life." 

The  other  smiled  as  he  settled  himself  into  the 
chair  near  the  bedside,  vacated  by  the  physician. 

"Yes,  he  is  a  great  doctor.  Stands  well  toward 
the  head  of  his  profession.  We  have  no  finer  in 
the  Northwest. "     Young  Carmody's  face  clouded. 

"But  how  am  I  to  pay  for  all  this?  It  is  all 
well  enough  for  you  to  laugh,  but  to  me  it  is  a 
serious  matter.     I " 

"Young  man,  you  are  my  guest.  I  don't  know 
who  you  are,  nor  where  you  came  from,  but,  by 
gad,  I  know  a  man  when  I  see  one!  From  the 
time  you  sat  in  that  game  to  save  that  poor  young 
fool  from  being  fleeced  until  you  dove  into  that 
black  hole  and  throttled  that  skunk " 

"They  caught  him,  did  they?" 

"Caught  him!     They  had  to  pry  him  loose! 


58  The  Promise 

You  have  got  the  grip  of  the  devil  himself.  The 
police  surgeon  told  me  they  would  have  to  put  a 
whole  new  set  of  plumbing  in  his  throat.  Said 
he  wouldn't  have  believed  that  any  living  thing, 
short  of  a  gorilla,  could  have  clamped  down  that 
hard  with  one  hand. 

"And  there  I  had  to  lie  pinned  down  and  watch 
him  go  through  a  dead  man's  pockets — it  was  our 
friend  the  reporter.  And  then  he  turned  around  and 
calmly  went  through  mine.  Gad!  If  I'd  had  a 
gun !  All  the  time  he  kept  up  a  run  of  talk,  joking 
about  the  wreck  and  the  easy  pickings  it  gave  him. 

"He  was  disappointed  when  he  failed  to  find 
you — said  he  owed  you  something  for  gumming  his 
game.  Well,  he  found  you  all  right — and  when 
he  gets  out  of  the  hospital  he  is  slated  for  twenty 
years  in  Joliet."  The  man  paused  and  glanced 
at  his  watch. 

"Bless  my  soul!  It  is  after  two  o'clock!  We 
will  have  luncheon  served  here." 

"It  is  a  peculiar  situation,"  mused  the  invalid. 
"The  last  thing  I  remember  is  being  in  the  thick  of 
a  railroad  wreck,  and  here  I  wake  up  in  bed,  with 
a  trained  nurse  in  the  room,  to  find  myself  the 
guest  of  a  man  whose  name  I  do  not  even  know. " 

"Appleton — H.  D.  Appleton,  of  Minneapolis. 
I  am  a  lumberman — just  returning  from  the  Na- 
tional Lumberman's  Convention  in  Buffalo.  And 
yours?" 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  tap  at  the  door  and  a 
couple  of  waiters  entered  bearing  trays. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BILL  GETS  A   JOB 

After  luncheon,  over  cigars,  the  conversation 
again  became  personal.  Appleton  regarded  the 
younger  man  thoughtfully. 

"You  spoke  of  being  temporarily  out  of  funds. 
Allow  me  to  loan  you  what  you  require." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  but  I  could  not  think  of  it. 
I  am  already  deeply  indebted  to  you.  If  it  were 
only  a  temporary  embarrassment  I  wouldn't  mind. 
But  I  have  no  definite  plans.  I  must  find  work, 
and  I  freely  confess  I  don't  know  exactly  how  to  go 
about  it.  It  might  be  a  long  time  before  I  could 
repay  the  loan.  Then,  too,  if  a  man  is  broke  he 
will  tackle  the  first  job  that  comes  along,  whereas 
if  he  had  money  in  his  pocket  he  would  be  tempted 
to  wait  for  something  better,  no  matter  what  was 
offered." 

"  If  you  work  it  right  you  can  easily  get  a  couple 
of  thousand  out  of  the  railroad  company — damages, 
you  know." 

The  younger  man  looked  up  quickly.  "Not 
me,"  he  smiled.  "I  have  not  sustained  any  loss 
to  speak  of.  That  crack  on  the  head  when  the 
coach  tipped  over  didn't  even  knock  me  out. 

59 


60  The  Promise 

And  as  for  the  pummeling  I  got  afterward  with 
the  knucks — that  was  my  own  lookout — the 
railroad  company  is  not  to  blame  for  that.  No. 
Getting  something  for  nothing  is  not  playing  the 
game — it  savors  too  strongly  of  the  methods  of  our 
friend  the  pickpocket." 

As  he  talked  the  elder  man  subjected  him  to  a 
careful  scrutiny.  He  noted  the  deep-set,  unwaver- 
ing eyes,  the  smiling  lips,  and  the  firm,  square  set 
of  the  jaw. 

"So  you  are  really  in  earnest  about  going  to 
work?" 

"In  earnest!  Mr.  Appleton,  you  have  just  wit- 
nessed a  fair  demonstration  of  the  demands  of  my 
appetite,"  with  a  nod  toward  the  array  of  empty 
dishes.  "I  am  subject  to  those  attacks  on  an 
average  of  three  times  a  day.  In  my  pocket  are 
just  four  one-dollar  bills.  Can  you  guess  the 
answer?" 

The  lumberman  smiled. 

"What  kind  of  position  were  you  thinking  of? 
What  is  your  business?" 

"  Haven't  any.  And  I  am  not  thinking  of  a 
position — what  I  want  is  a  job. " 

"Know  anything  about  lumber?" 

"No." 

The  two  smoked  in  silence  while  the  waiters 
removed  the  remains  of  the  luncheon.  "When  the 
door  closed  behind  them  the  lumberman  spoke. 
He  dropped  the  conversational  tone  and  his  words 
cut  crisp  and  to  the  point : 


Bill  Gets  a  Job  61 

"Young  man,  I  can  use  you.  If  you  are  foot- 
loose and  are  willing  to  work,  I  will  give  you  your 
chance.  I  am  going  to  put  it  up  to  you  straight 
and  let  you  decide  for  yourself. 

"  I  can  use  you  in  my  office  at  a  very  fair  salary. 
In  two  or  three  years  you  will,  in  all  probability, 
become  a  valuable  clerk — later,  a  lumber  salesman 
at  a  good  salary  and  better  commissions. 

"Your  duties  will  not  be  strenuous,  and  as  you 
enlarge  your  acquaintance  you  will  naturally  as- 
sume the  social  position  to  which  you  are  entitled. 

"Or  I  can  use  you  in  the  woods.  Send  you 
into  a  logging  camp  to  learn  the  business  where  it 
starts.  Up  there  the  work  is  not  easy.  Instead 
of  a  salary  you  will  receive  wages — and  you  will 
earn  them — every  cent  of  them.  There  are  no 
snap  jobs  in  a  logging  camp.  Everybody,  from 
the  boss  down,  works — and  works  hard.  Instead 
of  roast  lamb  and  green  peas  you  will  eat  salt  pork 
and  baked  beans. 

"  Youwillbe  called  a  lumberjack — a  social  pariah. 
Your  associates  will  be  big  men — some  good  and 
some  bad — bad  as  they  make  them — and  all  rough. 
Good  and  bad,  they  would  rather  fight  than  eat, 
and  they  would  rather  watch  others  fight  than 
fight. 

"  In  summer  you  can  loaf  and  blow  in  your  wages, 
or  you  can  go  into  the  mills  and  learn  how  lumber 
is  made — learn  to  tell  at  a  glance  whether  a  log 
will  saw  to  the  best  profit  into  bridge  timber  or 
lath. 


62  The  Promise 

"It  is  no  sinecure — the  life  of  the  logging  camp. 
A  hundred  times  you  will  be  called  upon  to  face 
battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death,  and  it  will  be 
up  to  you  to  make  good. 

"  In  the  office  I  have  clerks  who  will  be  found  at 
the  same  desk  twenty  years  from  now.  And  in 
the  woods  I  have  hundreds  of  swampers,  skidders, 
and  sawyers  who  will  always  be  swampers,  skidders 
and  sawyers.  I  have  camp  bosses  who  will  always 
be  camp  bosses,  and  a  few  who  will  become 
lumbermen. 

"  But  the  man  who  comes  up  through  that  school 
is  the  man  who  learns  the  game — the  man  who 
eventually  will  sit  behind  locked  doors  and  talk 
in  millions,  while  the  office-made  salesman  is  ou1-, 
on  the  road  dickering  in  car-loads. " 

He  paused  and  relighted  his  cigar. 

"And  you  are  offering  me  the  choice  of  these 
jobs?" 

"Just  so.  Take  your  time.  Think  it  over 
carefully  and  give  me  your  answer  in  the  morning. " 

"I  have  already  made  up  my  mind.  If  it  is 
just  the  same  to  you  I  will  go  to  the  woods. 
I  need  the  exercise, "  he  grinned 

"  By  the  way,  you  have  not  told  me  your  name." 

"Bill,"  he  answered,  and  watched  the  blue 
smoke  curl  upward  from  the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"Bill  what?"  Appleton  regarded  him  through 
narrowing  lids. 

"Bill,"  he  repeated.  "Just  Bill,  for  the  pre- 
sent— and   no  references.     Sometime — if  I  make 


Bill  Gets  a  Job  63 

good,  perhaps — but  surely  Bill  ought  to  be  name 
enough  for  a  lumberjack." 

"Well,  Bill,  you  are  hired!  Most  men  would 
call  me  a  fool!  Maybe  I  am — but  it's  got  to  be 
proven.  I  came  up  through  the  woods  myself  and 
I  know  men.  It  is  my  business  to  know  men.  A 
name  is  nothing  to  me — nor  references.  Both 
are  easy  to  get.  I  hire  men — not  names.  And 
as  for  references — I  don't  pay  for  past  perform- 
ances.    It  is  up  to  you  to  make  good ! 

"I  like  your  eyes.  There  is  honesty  in  those 
eyes — and  purpose.  Your  mother's  eyes,  I  should 
say."  The  young  man  turned  his  face  away  and 
the  blood  surged  upward,  reddening  the  skin  below 
the  white  bandages. 

Thoughts  of  his  mother  crowded  his  brain — the 
beautiful,  gentle  girl-mother,  who  used  to  snatch 
him  up  and  hold  him  close — way  back  in  the  curly- 
locks  days. 

He  remembered  her  eyes — deep,  soft  blue  eyes 
that  shone  bright  and  mysterious  with  love  for  the 
little  boy — so  often  such  a  bad,  self-willed  little 
boy — and  he  thought  of  the  hurt  in  those  eyes. 
It  was  his  very  worst  punishment  in  the  long  ago — 
to  read  the  pain  and  sorrow  in  those  eyes. 

" No,  no,  no!"  he  murmured.  " Not  her  eyes — 
not  mother's !  Oh,  I  am  glad  that  she  did  not  live 
to  know — "  He  stopped  abruptly  and  faced  the 
other,  speaking  quietly: 

"Mr.  Appleton,  I  am  not  a  criminal — not  a 
fugitive  from  justice — as  you  may  have  guessed. 


64  The  Promise 

But  I  have  been  an — an  awful  fool!"  The  older 
man  arose  and  extended  his  hand : 

"Good-by,  Bill.  You  better  sleep  now.  I  will 
see  you  in  the  morning. " 

As  the  door  closed  behind  Appleton,  the  pleas- 
ant-voiced nurse  appeared  at  the  bedside.  She 
straightened  the  covers,  patted  the  pillows  into 
shape,  and  fed  the  patient  medicine  out  of  a  spoon. 
She  hesitated  when  she  finished  and  smiled  down 
at  him. 

"Would  you  like  to  send  any  messages,"  she 
asked — "telegrams,  to  let  your  people  know  you 
are  safe?" 

Young  Carmody  returned  the  smile.  The  nurse 
looked  into  his  face  and  knew  that  behind  the 
smile  was  sadness  rather  than  mirth. 

"No,"  he  said;  "there  is  no  one  to  tell."  She 
leaned  over  and  laid  soft  fingers  on  his  bandaged 
brow. 

"Isn't — isn't  there  a  real  Ethel — somewhere?" 
He  did  not  resent  the  question  of  the  sweet-faced 
nurse. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "there  is  a  real  Ethel — 
but  she  would  not  care.    Nobody  cares. ' 


»» 


CHAPTER  X 

NORTHWARD,   HO! 

Buck  Moncrossen  was  a  big  man  with  a 
shrunken,  maggoty  soul,  and  no  conscience. 

He  had  learned  logging  as  his  horses  learned  it — 
by  repetition  of  unreasoning  routine,  and  after 
fifteen  years'  experience  in  the  woods  Appleton 
had  made  him  a  camp  boss. 

His  camps  varied  from  year  to  year  in  no  slight- 
est detail.  He  made  no  suggestions  for  facilitating 
or  systematizing  the  work,  nor  would  he  listen  to 
any.  He  roared  mightily  at  the  substitution  of 
horses  for  oxen;  he  openly  scoffed  at  donkey 
engines,  and  would  have  none  of  them. 

During  his  years  as  a  sawyer,  by  the  very  brute 
strength  and  doggedness  of  him,  he  had  established 
new  records  for  laying  down  timber.  And  now, 
as  boss,  he  bullied  the  sawyers  who  could  not  equal 
those  records — and  hated  those  who  could. 

Arbitrary,  jealous,  malignant,  he  ruled  his  camps 
with  the  bluff  and  bluster  of  the  born  coward. 

Among  the  lumberjacks,  he  was  known  and 
hated  as  a  hard  driver  of  men  and  a  savage  fighter. 
In  the  quick,  brutish  fights  of  the  camps,  men  went 
s  65 


66  The  Promise 

down  under  the  smashing  blows  of  his  huge  fists 
as  they  would  go  down  to  the  swing  of  a  derrick- 
boom,  and,  once  down,  would  be  jumped  upon  with 
calked  boots  and  spiked  into  submission. 

It  was  told  in  the  woods  that  whisky  flowed 
unchallenged  in  Buck  Moncrossen's  camps.  His 
crews  were  known  as  hard  crews;  they  "hired  out 
for  tough  hands,  and  it  was  up  to  them  to  play 
their  string  out." 

At  the  first  cry  of  "gillon"  (stormy  days  when 
the  crews  cannot  work)  flat  flasks  and  round 
black  bottles  circulated  freely  in  the  bunk-house, 
and  the  day  started,  before  breakfast,  in  a  wild 
orgy  of  rough  horse-play,  poker,  and  profanity. 

But  woe  betide  the  man  who  allowed  overindul- 
gence to  interfere  with  the  morrow's  work.  Evil 
things  were  whispered  of  Moncrossen's  man-hand- 
ling of  "hold-overs." 

In  the  office,  back  in  Minneapolis,  if  these  things 
were  known  they  were  winked  at.  For  Mon- 
crossen  was  a  boss  who  "  got  out  the  logs, "  and  the 
details  of  his  discipline  were  unquestioned. 

On  the  Appleton  holdings  along  Blood  River  the 
pine  stood  tall  and  straight  and  uncut. 

In  the  years  of  plenty — those  wasteful  years  of 
frenzied  logging,  when  white  pine  lumber  brought 
from  twelve  to  twenty  dollars  a  thousand  and 
rival  concerns  were  laying  down  only  the  choicest 
of  logs — Appleton's  crews  were  ordered  to  clean 
up  as  they  went. 

Toothpick  logging  it  was  called  then,  and  H.  D. 


Northward,  Ho  !  67 

Appleton  was  contemptuously  referred  to  as  "the 
toothpicker. " 

Twenty  years  later,  with  the  market  clamoring 
for  white  pine  at  any  price,  Appleton  was  selling 
white  pine,  while  in  the  denuded  forest  the  crews 
of  his  rivals  were  getting  out  cull  timber  and 
Norway. 

And  this  fall  Appleton  sent  Buck  Moncrossen 
into  the  Blood  River  country  with  orders  to  put 
ten  million  feet  of  logs  into  the  river  by  spring. 

So  it  was  that  the  few  remaining  inhabitants 
of  Hilarity  were  aroused  from  their  habitual 
apathy  one  early  fall  evening  by  the  shrill  shrieks 
of  an  engine  whistle  as  Moncrossen's  ten-car  train, 
carrying  crew  and  supplies  for  the  new  camp,  came 
to  a  stop  at  the  rusty  switch.  There  was  some- 
thing reminiscent  in  this  whistle-sound.  It  came 
as  a  voice  from  the  past. 

Time  was,  some  eight  or  ten  years  before,  when 
the  old  No.  9  and  her  companion  engine,  No.  II, 
whistled  daily  and  importantly  into  Hilarity, 
pushing  long  strings  of  "flats"  onto  the  spurs; 
and  then  whistled  out  again  with  each  car  groan- 
ing and  creaking  under  its  towering  pyramid  of 
logs. 

But  that  was  in  the  days  of  Hilarity's  prosperity 
— in  the  days  when  the  little  town  was  the  chief 
loading  point  for  two  thousand  square  mile*  of 
timber. 

It  had  been  a  live  town  then — work  and  wages 
and  the  spirit  to  spend — quick,  hot  life,  and  quick, 


68  The  Promise 

cold  death  danced  hand  in  hand  to  the  clink  of 
glasses. 

Everything  ran  wide  open,  and  all  night  long 
rough  men  sinned  abysmally  in  their  hell-envied 
play,  and,  crowding  the  saloons,  laughed  and 
fought  and  drank  red  liquor  in  front  of  long  pine 
bars,  where  the  rattle  of  chips  and  the  click  of 
pool-balls,  mingled  with  lurid  profanity,  floated 
out  through  the  open  doors  and  blended  with  the 
incessant  tintinnabulation  of  the  dance-hall  pianos. 

These  were  the  days  of  Hilarity's  prosperity, 
when  twenty  train-loads  of  logs  were  jerked  from 
her  spurs  by  day,  and  the  nights  rang  loud  with 
false  laughter. 

A  vanished  prosperity — for  now  the  little  town 
stood  all  but  deserted  in  its  clearing,  with  the 
encircling  hills  denuded  of  all  vegetation  save  a 
tangle  of  underbrush  and  a  straggling  growth  of 
stunted  jack  pine. 

Even  the  "pig-iron  loggers" — the  hardwood 
men — had  gleaned  the  last  stick  from  the  ridges, 
and  Hilarity  had  become  but  a  name  on  the  map. 

Only  those  remained  who  were  old  or  crippled, 
and  a  few — a  very  few — who  had  undertaken  to 
grub  out  tiny  farms  among  the  stumps. 

Each  evening  these  forlorn  remnants  were  wont 
to  forsake  their  stolid-faced  wives  and  yammering 
offspring  and  pick  their  way  through  the  solitary 
stump-dotted  street,  past  windowless,  deserted 
buildings  which  were  the  saloons  and  dance-halls 
of  better  days,   to   foregather  around   the  huge 


Northward,  Ho!  69 

stove  in  the  rear  of  Hod  Burrage's  general  store, 
which  was  decrepit  Hilarity's  sole  remaining  enter- 
prise, and  there  to  brag  and  maunder  over  the  dead 
town's  former  glory. 

The  fact  that  certain  of  Hod's  jugs  never  tilted 
to  the  filling  of  the  vinegar  bottles  or  molasses 
pails  of  the  women,  not  only  served  to  insure  un- 
flagging attendance,  but  the  sale  of  their  contents 
afforded  the  storekeeper  a  small  but  steady  income 
which  more  than  offset  any  loss  incident  to  the  pre- 
occupied inroads  upon  his  cracker  barrel. 

The  sound  of  the  once  familiar  whistle  brought 
the  men  tumbling  from  Burrage's  door,  while  up 
and  down  the  deserted  street  aproned  forms  stood 
framed  in  the  doorways,  beflanked  by  tousled 
heads  which  gazed  wonder-eyed  from  behind 
tight-gripped  skirts. 

Not  a  person  in  town,  except  the  very  newest 
citizens,  and  they  were  too  young  to  care — for 
nobody  ever  came  to  Hilarity  except  by  the  stork 
route — but  recognized  old  No.  9's  whistle. 

Strange,  almost  apologetic,  it  sounded  after 
its  years  of  silence;  not  at  all  like  the  throaty 
bellow  of  derision  with  which  the  long,  vestibuled 
coast  trains  thundered  through  the  forsaken  village. 

A  brakeman  leaped  from  the  cab  and  ran  ahead. 
Stooping,  he  cursed  the  corroded  lock  of  the  unused 
switch  which  creaked  and  jarred  to  the  pull  of 
the  lever  as  old  No.  g  headed  wheezily  onto  the 
rust-eaten  rails  of  the  rotting  spur. 

An  hour  later  she  puffed  noisily  away,  leaving 


70  The  Promise 

Moncrossen's  crew  encamped  in  the  deserted 
cabins  and  dilapidated  saloons  of  the  worn-out 
town. 

Moncrossen,  by  making  use  of  old  tote-roads, 
saved  about  forty  of  the  eighty  miles  of  road  build- 
ing which  lay  between  Hilarity  and  the  Blood 
River. 

Toward  the  end  of  October  the  v/ork  was  com- 
pleted, the  camp  buildings  erected,  and  a  brush 
and  log  dam  thrown  across  the  river  at  the  narrows 
of  a  white  water  rapid. 

Swampers  and  axe-men  set  to  work  building  skid- 
ways  and  cross-hauls,  and  the  banks  of  the  river 
were  cleared  for  the  roll-ways.  The  ground  was 
still  bare  of  snow,  but  the  sawyers  were  "laying 
them  down, "  and  the  logs  were  banked  at  the  skid- 
ways. 

Then  one  morning  the  snow  came. 

Quietly  it  fell,  in  big,  downy  flakes  that  floated 
lazily  to  earth  from  the  even  gray  of  the  cloud- 
spread  sky,  tracing  aimless,  zigzag  patterns  against 
the  dark  green  background  of  the  pines,  and  cover- 
ing the  brown  needles  of  the  forest  floor  and  the 
torn  mold  of  the  skid-ways  with  a  soft  blanket  of 
white. 

The  men  sprang  eagerly  to  their  work — heart- 
ened by  the  feel  of  the  snow.  The  tingling  air  was 
filled  with  familiar  man-sounds — the  resonant 
stroke  of  axes,  and  the  long  crash  of  falling  trees, 
the  metallic  rattle  of  chains,  the  harsh  rasp  of  saws, 
and  the  good-natured  calls  of  men  in  rude  banter; 


Northward,  Ho!  71 

sounds  that  rang  little  and  thin  through  the  mighty 
silence  of  the  forest. 

Gradually  the  flakes  hardened  and  the  zigzag 
patterns  resolved  themselves  into  long,  threadlike 
lines  which  slanted  earthward  with  a  soft,  hissing 
sound. 

Fast  it  fell,  and  faster,  until  the  background 
disappeared,  and  all  the  world  was  a  swift-moving 
riot  of  white. 

It  was  a  real  snow  now — a  snow  of  value  which 
buried  the  soft  blanket  of  the  feathery  flakes  under 
a  stable  covering  which  would  pack  hard  under  the 
heavy  runners  of  the  wide  log  sleds. 

It  lodged  in  thick  masses  in  the  trees  whose 
limbs  bent  under  the  weight,  and  the  woods  rang 
to  the  cries  of  the  sawyers  when  the  tottering  of  a 
mighty  pine  sent  a  small  avalanche  hurtling 
through  the  lower  branches,  half -burying  them  in 
its  white  smother. 

As  the  early  darkness  of  the  North  country 
settled  about  them  the  men  plowed  heavily  to  the 
bunk-house  through  a  foot  and  a  half  of  fresh- 
fallen  snow — and  still  it  snowed. 


CHAPTER  XI 

BILL   HITS   THE   TRAIL 

In  a  long-abandoned  shack  midway  between 
Moncrossen's  Blood  River  camp  and  Hilarity, 
Bill  Carmody  hugged  close  the  rusty,  broken 
stove. 

All  day  he  had  tramped  northward,  guided 
through  the  maze  of  abandoned  roads  by  the 
frozen  ruts  of  Moncrossen's  tote  wagons,  and  it 
was  long  after  dark  when  he  camped  in  the  north- 
ernmost of  the  old  shacks  with  civilization,  as 
represented  by  Hilarity's  deserted  buildings  and 
the  jug-tilting,  barrel-head  conclave  of  Hod  Bur- 
rage's  store,  forty  miles  to  the  southward. 

It  had  been  a  hard  day — this  first  day  of  his 
new  life  in  the  Northland.  And  now,  foot-sore, 
dog-tired,  and  dispirited,  he  sat  close  and  fed  sticks 
to  his  guttering  fire  which  burned  sullenly  and 
flared  red  for  want  of  draft. 

The  chinking  had  long  since  fallen  from  between 

the  logs  and  the  night  wind  whipped  the  smoke  in 

stinging  volleys  from  gaping  holes  in  the  rust-eaten 

jacket  of  the  dilapidated  air-tight. 

Tears  streamed  from  the  man's  smoke-tortured 

72 


Bill  Hits  the  Trail  73 

eyes,  every  muscle  of  his  body  ached  horribly 
from  the  unaccustomed  trail-strain,  and  his  feet, 
unused  to  the  coarse  woolen  socks  beneath  heavy 
boots,  were  galled  and  blistered  until  the  skin  hung 
in  rolls  from  the  edges  of  raw  scalds. 

He  removed  his  foot-gear  and  the  feel  of  the 
cold  wind  was  good  to  his  burning  feet.  He 
scowled  resentfully  at  the  galling  newness  of  his 
high-laced  boots  and  with  a  tentative  finger 
explored  his  hurts. 

Unbuckling  his  pack,  he  drew  forth  the  ready 
prepared  food  with  which  he  had  supplied  himself 
at  the  store.  The  pack  had  seemed  trifling  when 
he  swung  lightly  into  the  trail  that  morning,  but 
twelve  hours  later,  when  he  stumbled  painfully 
into  the  disused  shack,  it  had  borne  upon  his 
aching  shoulders  as  the  burden  of  Atlas. 

Hungry  as  he  was,  he  glared  disgustedly  at  the 
flaunting  label  of  the  salmon  can  and  the  un- 
appetizing loaf  of  coarse  bread  dried  hard,  rather 
than  baked,  from  sodden  dough,  by  Hod  Burrage's 
slovenly  spouse. 

And  as  he  glared  he  pondered  the  words  of  advice 
offered  by  the  old  man  with  the  twisted  leg  who 
sat  upon  Burrage's  counter  and  punctuated  his 
remarks  with  quick,  jerky  stabs  of  his  stout, 
home-made  crutch. 

"Tha'  cann't  fish  ben't  no  good  f'r  trail  grub, 
son.  Ye're  a  greener,  you  be.  Better  ye  lay  in 
what'll  stay  by  ye — a  bit  o'  bacon,  like,  or  some 
bologny — an'  a  little  tin  coffee-pot  yonder. 


74  The  Promise 

"Ye'll  be  thinkin'  o'  steppin'  out  the  door  wi* 
ye're  new  boots  an'  ye're  pack  an'  trippin'  up  to 
Blood  River  in  maybe  it's  two  walks,  wi'  naught  in 
ye're  belly  but  a  can  o'  cold  fish  an'  a  stun  weight 
o'  Mary  Burrage's  bread,  which  there  ain't  no 
more  raisin'  into  it  nor  a  toggle-chain. 

"  'Tis  plain  ye're  a  greener,  son;  but  take  an  old 
fool's  advice  an'  get  ye  a  pair  o'  the  shoe-packs 
yonder  to  spell  off  the  boots.  Bran'  new,  they  be, 
an'  they'll  gald  ye're  feet  till  ye'll  be  walkin' 
ankle-deep  in  hell  again'  night.  F'r  Oi'll  be  tellin' 
ye  Blood  River  lays  a  fine  two  walks  f'r  a  good  man, 
an'  his  boots  broke  in  to  the  wear. " 

Now  Bill  Carmody  was,  by  environment,  un- 
democratic, and  he  resented  being  called  a  greener. 
Also  the  emphasis  which  old  Daddy  Dunnigan  had 
placed  upon  the  words  "good  man,"  in  evident 
contrast  to  himself,  rankled. 

How  he  wished,  as  he  sat  in  the  cold  discomfort 
of  the  shack,  that  he  had  heeded  the  timely  and 
well-meant  advice.  His  was  not  an  arrogant 
nature,  nor  a  surly — but  the  change  in  his  environ- 
ment had  been  painfully  abrupt.  All  his  life  he 
had  chosen  for  companions  men  whom  he  looked 
upon  as  his  social  equals,  and  he  knew  no  others 
except  as  paid  hirelings  to  do  his  bidding.  And 
all  his  life  money  had  removed  from  his  pathway 
the  physical  discomforts  incident  to  existence. 

But  all  this  was  in  the  past.  Unconsciously  he 
was  learning  a  lesson  and  this  first  lesson  would  be 
hard — but  very  thorough,  and  the  next  time  he 


Bill  Hits  the  Trail  75 

met  Daddy  Dunnigan  he  would  take  him  by  the 
hand.  For  here  was  a  man — a  good  man — in  the 
making.  But  a  man  new  to  his  surroundings.  A 
man  who  would  learn  hard — but  quickly — and 
who  would  fight  hard  against  the  very  conditions 
which  were  to  make  him. 

His  perspective  must  first  be  broken  on  the 
wheel  of  experience,  that  he  might  know  human 
nature,  and  the  relative  worth  of  men.  His 
unplastic  nature  would  one  day  be  his  chief  bul- 
wark; as  now,  it  was  his  chief  stumbling  block. 
For  in  his  chosen  life-work  he  must  take  men — 
many  men — rough  men — of  diverse  codes  and 
warring  creeds,  and  with  them  build  an  efficient 
unit  for  the  conquering  of  nature  in  her  own  fast- 
nesses. And  this  thing  requires  not  only  knowl- 
edge and  strength,  but  courage,  and  the  will  to  do 
or  die. 

Alighting  from  the  caboose  of  the  local  freight 
train  on  the  previous  evening,  he  entered  Hod 
Burrage's  door  as  he  had  entered  the  doors  of 
trades-places  all  his  life.  To  him,  Hod  Burrage  was 
not  a  personality,  but  a  menial  existing  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  waiting  upon  and  attending  to  the 
wants  of  him,  Bill  Carmody.  The  others — the  old 
men,  and  the  crippled  ones,  and  the  hard-handed 
grubbers  of  stumps,  who  sat  about  in  faded  macki- 
naws  and  patched  overalls — he  regarded  not  at  all. 

He  deposited  his  pack-sack  on  the  floor  where 
its  canvas  sides,  outbulging  with  blankets  and 
duffel,  fairly  shrieked  their  newness. 


76  The  Promise 

After  some  minutes  of  silence — a  silence  neither 
friendly  nor  hostile,  during  which  Bill  was  con- 
scious that  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  him  in  frank 
curiosity,  he  spoke — and  in  speaking,  inadvertantly 
antagonized  the  entire  male  population  of  Hilarity. 
For  in  his  speech  was  no  word  of  greeting. 

He  addressed  no  one  in  particular,  but  called 
peremptorily,  and  with  a  trace  of  irritation,  for  a 
salesman. 

Now,  Hod  Burrage  was  anything  but  a  salesman. 
His  goods  either  sold  themselves  or  remained  on 
their  shelves,  and  to  Mr.  Burrage  it  was  a  matter 
of  supreme  indifference  which.  He  was  wont  to 
remark  to  hesitating  or  undecided  customers  that 
"if  folks  didn't  know  what  they  wanted  when  they 
come  into  the  store,  they  better  keep  away  till 
they  find  out." 

So,  in  answer  to  the  newcomer's  demand,  Hod 
shifted  his  quid  and,  with  exasperating  deliberation, 
spat  in  the  direction  of  a  sawdust-filled  box  near 
which  the  other  was  standing. 

Without  rising  from  his  seat  in  the  one  un- 
damaged chair,  he  answered:  "If  it's  the  store- 
keeper you  mean,  I'm  him."  Then,  as  an  after- 
thought.    "Was  they  somethin'  you  wanted?" 

Bill  resented  the  implied  rebuke  in  the  store- 
keeper's words  even  more  than  he  resented  the 
bombardment  of  tobacco  juice  which  barely  missed 
his  boots.  Take  it  all  in  all  he  was  having  a  rather 
rough  time  of  it. 

The  railway  people  had  refused  to  stop  their 


Bill  Hits  the  Trail  77 

fast  train  at  Hilarity  for  his  special  benefit,  and 
he  had  been  compelled  to  get  off  at  the  nearest 
division  point,  some  forty  miles  to  the  westward, 
and  continue  his  journey  in  the  evil-smelling  ca- 
boose of  the  local  freight-train  which  crawled 
jerkily  over  the  rails,  and  stopped  to  shunt  cars 
at  every  siding. 

Nearly  the  whole  day  had  been  consumed  for  the 
trip,  during  which  time  he  had  sat  in  the  stuffy, 
superheated  car,  whose  foul  air  reeked  of  cheap  to- 
bacco and  drying  garments,  and  listened  to  the 
guffaws  of  the  train-crew  as  they  regaled  each 
other  with  vile  stories  and  long  accounts  of  revolt- 
ing personal  experiences  among  the  dives  of 
cities. 

So  now,  tired,  grimy,  and  with  his  head  aching 
dully  from  the  long  breathing  of  foul  air,  he  was 
in  no  humor  for  comprehensive  amiability. 

He  made  his  few  purchases  and  replied  curtly 
to  the  questions  of  the  storekeeper.  It  is  doubtful 
if  he  would  have  replied  at  all  but  for  the  fact  that 
he  must  have  information  in  regard  to  the  where- 
abouts of  Moncrossen's  Blood  River  camp. 

There  was  a  roar  of  merriment,  which  he  an- 
swered with  a  scowl,  when  he  inquired  the  location 
of  the  hotel. 

"Jest  help  yourself,  stranger,"  said  Burrage, 
with  a  generous  sweep  of  the  arm  which  included 
all  Hilarity  not  within  the  confines  of  the  room. 
"They's  about  fifty  buildin's,  cabins,  an'  shacks 
along   the  street,   an'  you  can  take   your  pick. 


78  The  Promise 

Rent's  the  cheapest  thing  they  is  in  Hilarity — jest 
kick  out  the  rats  an'  spread  your  blankets." 

It  was  when  Bill  stooped  to  add  the  gaudy- 
labeled  cans  to  his  pack  that  Daddy  Dunnigan,  of 
the  twisted  leg,  volunteered  the  bit  of  advice  that 
fell  upon  his  ears  unheeded. 

He  was  openly  resentful  now,  having  detected 
certain  smiles,  winks,  and  nudgings  with  which  the 
assembled  men  called  each  other's  attention  to 
various  details  of  his  clothing  and  pack. 

During  the  storekeeper's  temporary  cessation  of 
vigilance  while  waiting  upon  his  customer,  the 
others  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  refresh  them- 
selves at  his  expense. 

A  thick,  heavy  tumbler,  so  cloudy  and  begrimed 
as  to  be  almost  opaque,  was  filled  from  a  large  jug 
placed  conveniently  upon  a  sack  of  potatoes,  and 
passed  from  one  to  the  other,  each  absorbing 
little  or  much  as  the  thirst  was  upon  him,  and 
passing  it  on  to  his  neighbor. 

Daddy  Dunnigan  offered  it  to  Bill  along  with 
the  advice;  but  the  latter  ungraciously  refused 
and,  turning  abruptly  away,  shouldered  his  pack 
and  proceeded  to  select  his  "hotel." 

"Wonder  who's  he?"  remarked  Hod  Burrage 
as  he  lazily  resumed  his  seat. 

"Too  damned  upity  to  suit  me!"  vociferated 
Creed,  Hilarity's  self-alleged  bad  man,  with  a 
fierce  exhalation  that  dislodged  a  thin  volley  of 
cracker-crumbs  from  his  overhanging  mustache. 
"A  heap  too  damned  upity  for  this  camp,  says  I." 


Bill  Hits  the  Trail  79 

He  shook  a  hairy  fist  menacingly  toward  the 
door  through  which  the  man  had  departed.  "It's 
lucky  for  him  it  was  old  Daddy  there  'stead  of  me 
he  wouldn't  drink  with  or  I'd  of  went  to  the  floor 
with  him  an'  teached  him  his  manners." 

"Naw  ye  wouldn't,  Creed,"  said  the  old  man. 
"Ye'd  done  jest  loikeye  done — set  there  atop  yer 
barr'l  an'  blinked.  An'  when  he'd  went  out  ye'd 
blowed  an'  bragged  an'  blustered,  an'  then  fizzled 
out  like  a  wet  fuse.  'Stead  of  which  Oi  predic* 
that  the  young  feller's  a  real  man — once  he  gets 
strung  out.  Anyways,  Oi  bet  he  does  his  foightin' 
whiles  the  other  feller's  there  'stead  of  settin* 
'round  an'  snortin'  folks'  whisky  full  o'  cracker- 
crumbs.  " 

He  gazed  ruefully  into  his  half -rilled  glass. 

"Throw  it  out,  Daddy,  an'  have  one  on  me," 
offered  Burrage,  reaching  for  the  jug. 

With  a  sly  wink  toward  the  others,  the  old  man 
drained  the  glass  at  a  gulp  and  passed  it  inno- 
cently to  be  refilled. 

"I'll  let  him  go  this  time,"  rumbled  Creed  with 
a  frown.  "He's  headin'  for  Buck  Moncrossen's 
camp — Moncrossen  '11  break  him!" 

"Or  he'll  break  Moncrossen!"  interrupted 
Daddy,  bringing  his  crutch  down  upon  the  floor. 
"The  one  camp'll  not  hold  the  two  o'  thim  f'r 
long.  Heed  ye  now,  Oi  predic'  there'll  be  hell  a 
poppin'  on  Blood  River,  an'  be  this  time  a  year  fr' 
now  one  o'  thim  two  '11  be  broke  f'r  good  an'  all,  an', 
not  to  mention  no  names,  it  won't  be  yon  stranger. " 


80  The  Promise 

The  strong  liquor  had  loosened  the  tongue  of 
the  ordinarily  silent  old  man  and  he  continued: 

"Oi  catched  his  eye  fair;  an'  'tis  the  eye  of  a 
foightin'  man — an  eye,  the  loike  o'  which  Oi  ain't 
seen  since  Oi  looked  f 'r  the  last  time  in  the  dead 
eyes  o'  Captain  Fronte  McKim,  in  the  second  out- 
break o'  the  wild  Boh,  Hira  Kal,  in  the  brown  hills 
o'  the  Punjab." 

The  men  listened  expectantly,  for  when  the 
liquor  was  right  the  old  man  could  tell  of  strange 
wars  in  far  climes. 

"One  night  the  little  hillmen  sneaked  up  on 
Captain  Barkley's  flyin'  battery.  They  left  his 
head  an'  his  men's  stickin'  atop  a  row  o'  stakes  an' 
dragged  the  guns  to  a  hilltop  overlookin'  the  pass. 
An'  in  the  mornin'  they  unlimbered,  sweepin' 
our  left  wing. 

"Fronte  McKim  was  captain  o'  the  Lights  an' 
Oi  was  a  corp'l.  All  that  mornin'  the  Boh  kep' 
pepperin'  away,  wi'  '  Miss  Fanny, '  the  colonel  he 
was,  an'  his  parade-groun'  staff  o'  book  sogers, 
wi'  tables  o'  figgers  an'  the  book  o'  rules  an'  maps 
an'  a  pair  o'  dividers,  tryin'  to  figger  out  how  to 
chase  a  bad  Boh  offen  a  hilltop  wi'out  clim'in'  the 
same. 

"An'  he  lived  a  long  time  after,  did  Miss  Fanny, 
to  die  in  his  bed  o'  some  nice,  fine  disease,  wi'  his 
fambly  an'  his  Scotch  an'  sody  gathered  about 
him. 

"An'  he  was  put  in  a  foine,  big  coffin  wi'  a  bran' 
new  flag  spread  atop  to  keep  off  the  dust,  an' 


Bill  Hits  the  Trail  81 

carried  back  to  Englan'  in  a  war-ship,  wi'  the 
harbor  guns  firin'  salutes — the  whiles  Fronte  Mc- 
Kim  lays  back  among  the  hills  o'  Punjab,  wropped 
in  his  powder-burnt,  shot-tore  blanket. 

"The  hillmen  an'  their  women  an'  the  shiny 
hill  kids  give  wide  berth  in  passin',  an'  make  low 
salaams  to  the  grave  o'  the  terrible  fightin'  sahib 
that  put  the  fear  o'  God  in  the  heart  o'  the  wild 
Boh.  An'  it's  as  Captain  Fronte  would  wished — 
Oi  know'd  um  well. 

"But,  as  Oi  was  sayin',  the  whiles  Miss  Fanny 
was  tryin' — by  nine  times  six  is  forty-seven  an* 
traject'ry  an'  muzzle  v'locity  an'  fours  right  an' 
holler  squares — to  wish  the  Boh  oflen  the  hilltop 
so  he  could  march  us  through  the  pass  accordin' 
to  Hoyle,  Fronte  McKim  was  off  ahead  among  the 
rocks,  layin'  on  his  belly  behint  a  ant-hill  studyin' 
the  hillside  through  his  spyglass. 

"Well,  'long  'bout  noon  he  come  gallopin'  up, 
wi'  his  big  black  horse  all  a  lather,  to  where  we 
was  layin'  in  the  scrub  cursin'  the  flies  an'  the 
department  an'  the  outbreaks  o'  Bohs. 

"'Come  on,  boys!"  he  hollers,  wi'  the  glitter  in 
his  eye ;  '  Oi  found  the  way !  All  together  now,  an' 
we'll  see  the  top  o'  yon  hill  or  we'll  see  hell  this 
day!" 

"Wi'  that  he  tears  loose  a  yell  'twould  strike  a 
chill  to  the  heart  o'  an  iceberg,  an'  wheels  his  horse 
into  the  open — an'  us  in  the  saddle  an'  follerin', 
all  yellin'  like  a  hellful  o'  devils  turned  loose  for 
recess." 

6 


82  The  Promise 

The  old  man  shifted  his  crutch  and  sipped  at 
his  liquor. 

11  Most  o'  us  seen  the  top  o'  the  hill, "  he  resumed, 
"an  the  brown  hillmen,  what  of  'em  wasn't  layin' 
limp  by  the  guns,  a  skitterin'  through  the  scrub 
after  a  Boh  who'd  took  off  on  a  stray  cavalry  horse. 

"But  they  was  a  many  o'  us  as  didn't — layin' 
sprawled  among  the  rocks  o'  the  bare  hillside,  an' 
their  horses  runnin'  wild  to  keep  up  wi'  the  charge. 
We  found  Captain  Fronte  wi'  his  whole  front 
blow'd  out  by  a  shell  an'  his  shoulders  kind  o' 
tumbled  in  where  his  lungs  belonged — but  thim 
eyes  was  lookin'  straight  at  the  hilltop. 

"An'  Oi  looked  in  'em  long — for  Oi  loved  him — 
an'  was  glad.  'Cause  Oi  know'd  Captain  Fronte 
McKim  was  seein'  hell — an'  enjoyin'  it." 

He  set  down  the  empty  glass  and  favored  Creed 
with  a  cold  stare:  "An'  his  eyes  is  like  that — the 
stranger's — an'  yours  ain't,  nor  Moncrossen's. " 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  TEST 


With  only  one-half  of  his  journey  behind  him 
and  the  chill  night-wind  whipping  through  the 
unchinked  crevices  of  the  deserted  shack;  with 
the  prospect  of  an  unsavory  supper  of  soggy 
sock-eye  and  a  lump  of  frozen  bread,  Bill  Carmody 
fervently  wished  himself  elsewhere. 

His  mind  lingered  upon  the  long  row  of  squat, 
fat-footed  shoe-packs  which  the  old  rran  had 
indicated  with  his  gnarled  crutch.  How  good  they 
Would  feel  after  the  grinding  newness  of  his  boots! 
And  coffee — he  could  see  the  row  of  tin  pots 
hanging  from  their  wires,  and  the  long,  flat 
slabs  of  bacon  suspended  from  the  roof-logs  of 
the  store. 

He  found  himself,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
absolutely  dependent  upon  his  own  resources.  He 
cut  the  top  from  a  can  of  salmon  and  thawed  out 
his  bread  on  the  top  of  the  dirty  stove.  He  had 
no  cup,  so  he  used  the  salmon-can,  limping  in 
stockinged  feet  to  the  spring  near  the  deer,  whose 
black  waters  splashed  coldly  in  a  tiny  iivulet  that 
found  its  way  under  the  frozen  surface  of  a  small 

83 


84  The  Promise 

creek.  The  water  was  clear  and  cold,  but  tasted 
disgustingly  fishy  from  its  contact  with  the  can. 

As  he  entered  the  shack  and  closed  the  sagging 
door,  his  glance  was  arrested  by  an  object  half 
concealed  in  the  cobwebbed  niche  between  the 
lintel  and  the  sloping  roof -logs — an  object  that 
gleamed  shiny  and  black  in  the  dull  play  of  the 
firelight.  He  reached  up  and  withdrew  from  its 
hiding-place  a  round  quart  bottle,  across  whose  top 
was  pasted  a  familiar  green  stamp  which  proclaimed 
that  the  contents  had  been  bottled  in  bond. 

He  carried  it  to  the  fire  and  with  the  sleeve  of 
his  mackinaw  removed  the  accumulated  dust  from 
the  label.  "Old  Morden  Rye,"  he  read  aloud, 
holding  it  close  to  the  firelight.  And  as  he  read 
his  thoughts  flew  backward  to  past  delights.  Here 
was  an  old  friend  come  to  cheer  him  in  the 
wilderness. 

He  was  no  longer  cold  nor  hungry,  and  before 
his  eyes  danced  the  bright,  white  lights  of  the 
man-made  night  of  Broadway.  His  shoulders 
straightened  and  the  sparkle  came  into  his  eyes. 
Forgotten  was  his  determination  to  make  good, 
and  the  future  was  a  remote  thing  of  no  pre- 
sent moment  nor  concern.  Once  again  he  was 
Broadway  Bill,  the  sport ! 

Carefully  and  deliberately  he  broke  the  seal  and 
removed  the  cork-rimmed  glass  stopper,  which  he 
flung  to  a  far  corner  of  the  room — for  that  was 
Bill's  way — to  throw  away  the  cork.  There  was 
nothing  small  in  his  make-up;  and  for  why  is 


The  Test  85 

whisky,  but  to  drink  while  it  lasts?  And  one 
cannot  drink  through  a  cork-rimmed  stopper. 
So  he  threw  it  away. 

Only  that  day  as  he  had  laboriously  stepped  off 
the  long  miles  he  had  thought  with  virtuous  com- 
placence of  the  completeness  of  his  reformation. 

He  thought  how  he  had  refused  to  drink  with 
Daddy  Dunnigan  from  the  smeared  and  cloudy 
glass  half-filled  with  the  raw,  rank  liquor,  across 
the  surface  of  which  had  trailed  the  tobacco- 
stained  mustaches  of  the  half-dozen  unkempt  men. 

A  week  before  he  had  refused  to  drink  good 
whisky  with  Appleton — but  that  was  amid  sur- 
roundings against  which  he  had  fortified  himself; 
surroundings  made  familiar  by  a  little  veneered 
table  in  the  corner  of  the  tile-floored  bar  of  a  well- 
known  hotel,  and  while  the  spirit  of  his  determina- 
tion to  quit  was  strong  upon  him.  Besides,  it 
was  good  policy. 

Therefore,  he  ordered  ginger  ale;  but  Appleton 
drank  whisky  and  noted  that  the  other  eyed  the 
liquor  as  the  little  beads  rose  to  the  top,  and  that 
as  he  looked  he  unconsciously  moistened  his  lips 
with  his  tongue — just  that  little  thing — as  he 
looked  at  the  whisky  in  Appleton's  glass.  By  that 
swift  movement  Appleton  understood,  for  he  knew 
men — it  was  his  business  to  know  men — and  then 
and  there  he  decided  to  send  Bill  to  Moncrossen's 
camp,  where  it  was  whispered  whisky  flowed  freely. 

Appleton  had  no  son,  and  he  felt  strangely 
drawn  toward  the  young  man  whose  eyes  had  held 


86  The  Promise 

him  from  the  time  of  their  first  meeting.  But  he 
must  prove  his  worth,  and  the  test  should  be  hard 
- — and  very  thorough. 

Appleton  realized  that  to  place  him  in  any  one 
of  the  other  camps,  where  the  ban  was  on  whisky, 
and  where  each  smuggled  bottle  was  ferreted  out 
and  smashed,  would  be  no  test.  It  is  no  credit 
to  a  man  to  refrain  from  whisky  where  no  whisky 
is. 

But  place  a  man  who  has  created  an  appetite  for 
whisky  among  men  who  drink  daily  and  openly, 
and  enjoy  it;  who  urge  and  encourage  him  to  do 
likewise;  where  whisky  is  continually  before  his 
eyes,  and  the  rich  bouquet  of  it  in  his  nostrils,  and 
that  is  a  test. 

Appleton  knew  this,  and  knowing,  he  sent  Bill 
to  Moncrossen,  and  smiled  as  he  bet  with  himself 
on  the  outcome.  But  there  is  one  other  test — the 
supreme  test  of  all,  of  which  even  Appleton  did 
not  know. 

Place  this  same  man  alone,  tired  out,  hungry, 
thirsty,  and  cold,  with  every  muscle  of  his  body 
crying  its  protest  of  aches  against  the  overstrain 
of  a  long  day's  work;  surround  him  with  every 
attribute  of  physical  discomfort;  with  the  future 
stretching  away  in  a  dull  gray  vista  of  uncertainty, 
and  the  memory  strong  upon  him  that  the  girl — 
the  one  girl  in  all  the  world — has  ceased  to  believe 
in  him — has  ceased  to  care ;  add  to  this  the  recollec- 
tion of  good  times  gone — times  when  gccd  liquor 
flowed  freely  among  good  fellows,  and  at  this  par- 


The  Test  87 

ticular  psychological  moment  let  him  come  sud- 
denly and  unexpectedly  upon  a  bottle  of  whisky — 
good  whisky,  of  a  brand  of  which  he  has  always 
approved — that  is  the  acid  test — and  in  writing 
this  I  know  whereof  I  write. 

And  that  is  why  Bill  Carmody  carefully  and  de- 
liberately broke  the  seal  and  threw  the  cork  away, 
and  shook  the  bottle  gently,  and  breathed  deep 
of  its  fragrance,  and  smiled  in  anticipation  as  the 
little  beads  flew  upward. 

The  fire  had  died  down,  and  he  set  the  bottle  on 
the  floor  beside  him  and  reached  for  the  firewood. 
As  he  did  so  a  long,  sealed  envelope,  to  the  outside 
of  which  was  tightly  bound  a  photograph,  fell  to 
the  floor  from  the  inner  pocket  of  his  mackinaw. 

As  he  stooped  to  recover  it  his  eyes  encountered 
those  of  the  picture  gazing  upward  through  the 
half-light.  A  flickering  tongue  of  flame  flared 
brightly  for  a  moment  and  illumined  the  features, 
bringing  out  their  expression  with  startling  dis- 
tinctness. 

It  was  the  face  of  the  girl.  The  flame  died  out, 
leaving  the  pictured  likeness  half  concealed  in  the 
soft  semi-darkness  of  the  dying  embers. 

It  seemed  hours  that  the  man  sat  motionless, 
staring  into  the  upturned  eyes — those  eyes  into 
which  he  had  so  often  gazed,  but  which  were  now 
lost  to  him  forever.  And  as  he  looked,  other 
thoughts  crowded  his  brain ;  thoughts  of  his  father, 
and  the  scorn  of  their  parting;  thoughts  of  the 
girl,  of  her  words,  and  of  his  own  boast:  "I  can 


88  The  Promise 

beat  the  game!    And  I  will  beat  it — now!   .    .    . 
And  some  day  you  will  know." 

His  anger  rose  against  the  man  whose  own  flesh 
and  blood  he  was,  who  had  driven  him  from  home 
with  words  of  bitter  sarcasm,  and  against  the  girl 
and  her  sneering  repudiation  of  him.  He  leaped 
to  his  feet  and  shook  a  clenched  fist  to  the  south- 
ward: 

"I  told  you  I  would  make  good!"  he  roared, 
"and,  by  God,  I  will!  I  am  a  McKim — do  you 
hear?     I  am  a  McKim — and  I  shall  make  good!" 

He  reached  for  the  bottle  and  placed  it  beside 
him  on  the  pine  table.  He  did  not  pour  out  the 
whisky,  for  he  did  not  fear  it — only  if  he  drank  it 
need  he  fear. 

Just  one  little  drink,  and  he  was  lost — and  he 
knew  this.  And  now  he  knew  that  he  would  never 
take  that  drink — and  he  looked  at  the  bottle  and 
laughed — laughed  as  the  girl  had  laughed  when  she 
sent  him  from  her  forever. 

"It's  no  go,  old  boy,"  he  smiled,  apostrophizing 
John  Barleycorn.  "I  served  you  long — and  well. 
But  I  quit.  You  would  not  believe  that  I  quit, 
and  came  out  here  to  get  me.  And  you  almost 
got  me.  Almost,  but  not  quite,  John,  for  I  have 
quit  for  good  and  all.  We  can  still  be  friends, 
only  now  I  am  the  master  and  you  are  the  servant, 
and  to  start  out  with,  I  am  going  to  pour  half  of 
you  over  my  blistered  feet. " 

He  recovered  the  packet  from  the  floor  and 
looked  long  at  the  picture.     "And  some  day  you 


The  Test  89 

will  know,"  he  repeated,  as  he  returned  it  to  his 
pocket. 

Thus  did  the  lonely  girl  in  a  far  distant  city 
unconsciously  win  a  silent  victory  for  the  man  sb* 
loved — and  who  loved  her. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ON   THE   TOTE-ROAD 

Very  early  in  the  morning  on  the  day  of  the 
storm  which  had  been  welcomed  by  the  lumber- 
jacks of  the  Blood  River  camp,  old  Wabishke 
started  over  his  trap-line. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  promise  of  snow,  and 
one  by  one  the  Indian  took  up  his  traps  and  hung 
them  in  saplings  that  they  might  not  be  buried. 

After  the  storm,  with  the  Northland  lying  silent 
under  its  mantle  of  white,  and  the  comings  and 
goings  of  the  fur-bearers  recorded  in  patterns  of 
curious  tracery,  Wabishke  would  again  fare  forth 
upon  the  trap-line. 

With  wise  eyes  and  the  cunning  of  long  practice, 
he  would  read  the  sign  in  the  snow,  and  by  means 
of  craftily  concealed  iron  jaws  and  innocent  ap- 
pearing deadfalls,  renew  with  increased  confidence 
in  his  "winter  set,"  the  world-old  battle  of  skill 
against  instinct. 

On  the  crest  of  a  low  ridge  at  the  edge  of  the 

old  chopping  where  Moncrossen's  new  Blood  River 

tote-road  made  a  narrow  lane  in  the  forest,  the 

Indian  paused. 

90 


On  the  Tote-Road  91 

In  the  stump-dotted  clearing,  indistinct  in  the 
sullen  dimness  of  the  overcast  dawn,  rotted  the 
buildings  of  the  abandoned  log-camp.  From  one 
of  these  smoke  rose.  Wabishke  decided  to  investi- 
gate, for  in  the  Northland  no  smallest  detail  may 
pass  unaccounted  for.  Swiftly  he  descended  the 
ridge  and,  gliding  silently  into  the  aftergrowth  of 
spindling  saplings  that  reared  their  sickly  heads 
among  the  stumps,  gained  the  rear  of  the  shack. 
Noiselessly  he  advanced,  and,  peering  between  the 
unchinked  logs,  surveyed  the  interior. 

A  man  sat  upon  the  floor  near  the  stove  and 
laboriously  applied  bandages  to  his  blistered  feet. 
Near  by  was  a  new  pack-sack  against  which 
leaned  a  pair  of  new  high-laced  boots  toward  which 
the  man  shot  wrathful  glances  as  he  worked. 

"  Chechako,"  muttered  the  Indian,  and  passed 
around  to  the  door. 

A  popular-fiction  Indian  would  have  glided 
stealthily  into  the  shack  and,  with  becoming 
dignity,  have  remarked  "How." 

But  "Wabishke  was  just  a  common  Indian — one 
of  the  everyday  kind,  that  may  be  seen  any  time 
hanging  about  the  trading-posts  of  the  North- 
country — unimaginative,  undignified — dirty.  So 
he  knocked  loudly  upon  the  door  and  waited. 

"Come  in!"  called  Carmody,  and  gazed  in  sur- 
prise at  the  newcomer,  who  stared  back  at  him 
without  speaking.  Wabishke  advanced  to  the 
stove,  and,  fumbling  in  the  pocket  of  his  disreput- 
able mackinaw,  produced  a  very  old  and  black 


92  The  Promise 

cob-pipe,  which  he  gravely  extended  toward  the 
other. 

"No,  thanks!"  said  Bill  hastily.  "Got  one  of 
my  own." 

He  eyed  with  disfavor  the  short,  thick  stem, 
about  the  end  of  which  was  wound  a  bit  of  filthy 
rag,  which  served  as  a  mouthpiece  for  the  grip 
of  the  yellow  fangs  which  angled  crookedly  at  the 
place  where  a  portion  of  the  lip  had  been  torn  away 
in  some  long-forgotten  combat  of  the  wilds. 

"T'bacco, "  grunted  the  visitor,  with  a  greasy 
distortion  of  the  features  which  passed  for  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  that's  it?     Well,  here  you  are. " 

Carmody  produced  a  bright -colored  tin  box, 
which  he  handed  to  the  Indian,  who  squatted  upon 
his  heels  and  regarded  its  exterior  in  thoughtful 
silence  for  many  minutes,  turning  it  over  and 
over  in  his  hand  and  subjecting  every  mark 
and  detail  of  its  lettered  surface  to  a  minute 
scrutiny. 

Finally  with  a  grunt  he  raised  the  lid  and  con- 
templated the  tobacco,  which  was  packed  evenly 
in  thin  slices. 

He  stared  long  and  curiously  at  his  own  dis- 
torted image,  which  was  reflected  from  the  un- 
painted  tin  of  the  inside  of  the  cover,  felt  cautiously 
of  the  paraffined  paper,  and,  raising  the  box  to  his 
nose,  sniffed  noisily  at  the  contents. 

Apparently  satisfied,  he  removed  a  dozen  or 
more  of  the  slices  and  ground  them  slowly  between 
the  palms  of  his  hands.     This  done,  he  rammed 


On  the  Tote-Road  93 

possibly  one-tenth  of  the  mass  into  the  bowl  of 
his  ancient  pipe  and  carefully  conveyed  the  re- 
mainder to  his  pocket. 

"Match?"  he  asked.  And  Bill  passed  over  his 
monogrammed  silver  match-box,  which  received  its 
share  of  careful  examination,  evidently,  however, 
not  meeting  the  approval  accorded  the  gaudy 
tobacco-box. 

The  Indian  abstracted  about  one-half  of  the 
matches,  which  he  transferred  to  the  pocket  con- 
taining the  tobacco.  Then,  calmly  selecting  a 
dry  twig  from  the  pile  of  firewood,  thrust  the  end 
through  a  hole  in  the  broken  stove,  and  after  much 
noisy  puffing  at  length  succeeded  in  igniting  the 
tightly  tamped  tobacco  in  his  pipe-bowl. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Bill,  contemplating  his  few 
remaining  matches.  "You're  a  bashful  soul, 
aren't  you?  Did  you  ever  serve  a  term  in  the 
Legislature?" 

The  Indian's  command  of  English  did  not  in- 
clude a  word  Bill  had  uttered;  nevertheless,  his 
mangled  lip  writhed  about  the  pipe-stem  in  gro- 
tesque grin. 

"Boots!"  he  grunted,  eying  the  bandaged  feet. 
"  No  good ! "  and  he  complacently  wriggled  the  toes 
in  his  own  soft  moccasins.  Bill  noted  the  move- 
ment, and  a  sudden  desire  obsessed  him  to  possess 
at  any  cost  those  same  soft  moccasins. 

Wabishke,  like  most  Indians,  was  a  born  trader, 
and  he  was  quick  to  note  the  covetous  glance  that 
the  white  chechako  cast  toward  his  footgear. 


94  The  Promise 

"Will  you  sell  those?"  asked  Bill,  pointing 
toward  the  moccasins.  The  Indian  regarded  them 
thoughtfully,  and  again  the  toes  wriggled  com- 
fortably beneath  the  pliable  moose-skin  covering. 
Bill  tried  again. 

"  How  much?"  he  asked,  touching  the  moccasins 
with  his  finger. 

The  Indian  pondered  the  question  through  many 
puffs  of  his  short  pipe.  He  pointed  to  the  new 
boots,  and  when  Bill  handed  them  to  him  he 
carefully  studied  every  stich  and  nail  of  each. 
Finally  he  laid  them  aside  and  pointed  to  the 
tobacco-box,  which  he  again  scrutinized  and  laid 
with  the  boots. 

"Match,  "he  said. 

"Get  a  light  from  the  fire  like  you  did  before,  you 
old  fraud!     I  only  have  a  few  left." 

"Match,"  repeated  the  Indian,  and  Bill  passed 
over  his  match-box,  which  was  placed  with  the 
other  items.  Wabishke  pointed  toward  the  pack- 
sack. 

"Look  here,  you  red  Yankee!"  exclaimed  Bill. 
"Do  you  want  my  whole  outfit  for  those  things? " 

The  other  merely  shrugged  and  pointed  first  at 
the  bandaged  feet,  and  then  at  the  boots.  One 
by  one,  a  can  of  salmon,  a  sheath-knife,  and  a  blue 
flannei  shirt  were  added  to  the  pile,  and  still  Wa- 
bishke seemed  unsatisfied. 

While  the  Indian  pawed  over  the  various  articles 
of  his  pack,  Bill  found  time  to  put  the  finished 
touches  on  his  bandages,  and,  reaching  under  the 


On  the  Tote-Road  95 

table,  drew  forth  the  whisky  bottle  and  poured 
part  of  its  contents  upon  the  strips  of  cloth. 

At  the  sight  of  the  bottle  the  Indian's  eyes 
brightened,  and  he  reached  for  it  quickly.  Bill 
shook  his  head  and  set  the  bottle  well  out  of  his 
reach. 

"Me  drink,"  the  other  insisted,  and  again  Bill 
shook  his  head.     The  Indian  seemed  puzzled. 

"No  like?"  he  asked. 

"No  like,"  repeated  Bill,  and  smiled  grimly. 

Wabishke  regarded  him  in  wondering  silence. 
In  his  life  he  had  seen  many  strange  things,  but 
never  a  thing  like  this — a  white  man  who  of  his 
own  choice  drank  spring-water  from  a  fish-can 
and  poured  good  whisky  upon  his  feet ! 

The  Indian's  eyes  wandered  from  the  pile  of 
goods  to  the  bottle,  in  which  about  one-fourth 
of  the  contents  remained,  and  realized  that  he  was 
at  a  disadvantage,  for  he  knew  by  experience  that 
a  white  man  and  his  whisky  are  hard  to  part. 

Selecting  the  can  of  salmon  from  the  pile,  he 
shoved  it  toward  the  man,  who  again  shook  his 
head.  Then  followed  the  match-box,  the  sheath- 
knife,  and  the  shirt,  until  only  the  tobacco-box 
and  the  boots  remained,  and  still  the  man  shook 
his  head. 

Slowly  the  tobacco-box  was  handed  back,  and 
the  Indian  was  eying  the  boots.     Bill  laughed. 

"No.  You'll  need  those.  Just  hand  over  the 
moccasins,  and  you  are  welcome  to  the  boots 
and  the  booze." 


96  The  Promise 

The  Indian  hastily  untied  the  thongs,  and  the 
white  man  thrust  his  bandaged  feet  into  the  soft 
comfort  of  the  mooseskin  moccasins.  A  few 
minutes  later  he  took  the  trail,  following  the  wind- 
ings of  Moncrossen's  new  tote-road  into  the  North. 

The  air  was  filled  with  a  light,  feathery  snow, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  ache  of  his  stiffened  muscles, 
he  laughed. 

"The  first  bottle  of  whisky  I  ever  entered  on  the 
right  side  of  the  ledger, "  he  said  aloud — and  again 
he  laughed. 

He  was  in  the  big  timber  now.  The  tall, 
straight  pines  of  the  Appleton  holdings  stretched 
away  for  a  hundred  miles,  and  formed  a  high  wall 
on  either  side  of  the  tote-road,  which  bent  to  the 
contour  of  ridge  and  swamp  and  crossed  small 
creeks  on  rough  log  bridges  or  corduroy  causeways. 

Gradually  the  stiffness  left  him,  and  his  aching 
muscles  limbered  to  their  work.  His  moccasins 
sank  noiselessly  into  the  soft  snow  as  mile  after 
mile  he  traversed  the  broad  ribbon  of  white. 

At  noon  he  camped,  and  over  a  tiny  fire  thawed 
out  his  bread  and  warmed  his  salmon,  which  he 
washed  down  with  copious  drafts  of  snow-water. 
Then  he  filled  his  pipe  and  blew  great  lungfuls  of 
fragrant  smoke  into  the  air  as  he  rested  with  his 
back  against  a  giant  pine  and  watched  the  fall  of 
the  snow. 

During  the  last  hour  the  character  of  the  storm 
had  changed.  Cold,  dry  pellets,  hissing  earthward 
had  replaced  the  aimless  dance  of  the  feathery 


On  the  Tote-Road  97 

flakes,  and  he  could  make  out  but  dimly  the 
opposite  wall  of  the  rod-wide  tote-road. 

He  returned  the  remains  of  his  luncheon  to  his 
pack,  eying  with  disgust  the  heel  of  the  loaf  of  hard 
bread  and  the  soggy,  red  mass  of  sock-eye  that 
remained  in  the  can. 

"The  first  man  that  mentions  canned  salmon  to 
me,"  he  growled,  "is  going  to  get  hurt!" 

The  snow  was  ankle-deep  when  he  again  took 
the  trail  and  lowered  his  head  to  the  sting  of  the 
wind-driven  particles.  On  and  on  he  plodded, 
lifting  his  feet  higher  as  the  snow  deepened.  As 
yet,  in  his  ignorance  of  woodcraft,  no  thought  of 
danger  entered  his  mind.  "It  is  harder  work, 
that  is  all,"  he  thought;  but,  had  he  known  it, 
his  was  a  situation  that  no  woodsman  wise  in  the 
ways  of  the  winter  trails  would  have  cared  to  face. 

During  the  morning  he  had  covered  but  fifteen 
of  the  forty  miles  which  lay  between  the  old  shack 
and  Moncrossen's  camp.  Each  minute  added  to 
the  difficulties  of  the  journey,  which,  in  the 
words  of  Daddy  Dunnigan  was  "a  fine  two  walks 
for  a  good  man,"  and,  with  the  added  hardship  of 
a  heavy  snowfall,  would  have  been  a  man's-sized 
job  for  the  best  of  them  equipped,  as  they  would 
have  been,  with  good  grub  and  snowshoes. 

Bill  was  forced  to  rest  frequently.  Not  only 
were  his  softened  muscles  feeling  the  strain — it  was 
getting  his  wind,  this  steady  bucking  the  snow — 
but  each  time  he  again  faced  the  storm  and  plowed 
doggedly  northward. 

7 


98  The  Promise 

Darkness  found  him  struggling  knee-deep  in 
the  cold  whiteness,  and,  as  he  paused  to  rest  in  the 
shelter  of  a  pile  of  tops  left  by  the  axe-men,  the 
foremost  of  the  gray  shadows  that  for  the  last  two 
hours  had  dogged  his  footsteps,  phantom-like,  re- 
solved itself  into  a  very  tangible  pair  of  wicked 
eyes  which  smoldered  in  greenish  points  of  hate 
above  a  very  sharp,  fang-studded  muzzle,  from 
which  a  long,  red  tongue  licked  suggestively  at 
back-curled  lips. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


AT   BAY 


Bill  Carmody  was  no  coward ;  but  neither  was 
he  a  fool,  and  for  the  first  time  the  seriousness  of 
his  position  dawned  upon  him.  Other  shapes 
appeared  and  ranged  themselves  beside  their  leader, 
and  as  the  man  looked  upon  their  gaunt,  sinewy 
leanness,  the  slavering  jaws,  and  blazing  eyes,  he 
shuddered.     Here,  indeed,  was  a  very  real  danger. 

He  decided  to  camp.  Fire,  he  remembered  to 
have  read,  would  hold  the  brutes  at  bay.  Wood 
there  was  in  plenty,  and,  quickly  clearing  a  space 
in  the  snow,  he  soon  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
tiny  tongues  of  flame  crackle  in  a  pile  of  dry 
branches. 

He  unslung  his  light  axe  and  attacked  the  limbs 
of  a  dead  pine  that  lay  at  the  edge  of  the 
road. 

After  an  hour's  work  his  cleared  space  was 
flanked  on  either  side  by  piles  of  dry  firewood,  and 
at  his  back  the  great  pile  of  tops  afforded  shelter 
from  the  wind  which  swept  down  the  roadway, 
driving  before  it  stinging  volleys  of  snow. 

He  spread  his  blanket  and  drew  from  his  pack 

99 


ioo  The  Promise 

the  unappetizing  food.     He  warmed  the  remaining 
half-can  of  salmon  and  whittled  at  his  nubbin  of 

bread. 

"Dinner  is  served,  sir,"  he  announced  to  him- 
self, "dead  fish  with  formaldehyde  dressing,  petri- 
fied dough,  and  aqua  nivis. ' '  The  storm  continued, 
and  as  he  smoked  the  gravity  of  his  plight  forced 
itself  upon  him. 

The  laggards  had  caught  up,  and  at  the  edge  of 
the  arc  of  firelight  a  wide  semicircle  of  insanely 
glaring  eyeballs  and  gleaming  fangs  told  where 
the  wolf -pack  waited. 

There  was  a  terrifying  sense  of  certainty  in  their 
method.  They  took  no  chance  of  open  attack, 
wasted  no  breath  in  needless  howling  or  snarling, 
but  merely  sat  upon  their  haunches  beyond  the 
circle  of  the  firelight — waiting. 

Again  the  man  shuddered.  Before  him,  he  knew, 
lay  at  least  fifteen  miles  of  trail  knee-deep  with 
snow,  and  he  had  left  but  one  small  ration  of 
unpalatable  and  unnutritious  food. 

"I  seem  to  be  up  against  a  tough  proposition," 
he  mused.  "What  was  it  Appleton  said  about 
battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death?  It  looks  from 
here  as  if  the  old  boy  knew  what  he  was  talking 
about.  But  it  is  kind  of  rough  on  a  man  to  roll 
them  all  up  into  one  bundle  and  hand  it  to  him 
right  on  the  kick-off. " 

He  had  heard  of  men  who  became  lost  in  the 
woods  and  died  horribly  of  cold  and  starvation, 
or  went  down  to  the  rush  of  the  wolf -pack. 


At  Bay  ibi 

"As  long  as  I  stick  to  this  road  I  won't  get  lost, " 
he  thought.  "I  may  freeze  to  death,  or  starve, 
or  furnish  a  cozy  meal  for  the  wolves  yonder,  but 
even  at  that  I  still  have  the  edge  on  those  others — 
I'm  damned  if  I'm  lost!" 

And,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  thought  gave 
him  much  comfort. 

He  tossed  more  wood  on  the  fire  and  watched 
the  shower  of  sparks  which  shot  high  above  the 
flames. 

"To-morrow  will  be  my  busy  day,"  he  remarked, 
addressing  the  wolves.  "Good  night,  you  hell- 
hounds !  Just  stick  around  and  see  that  nothing 
sneaks  up  and  bites  me." 

He  hurled  a  blazing  firebrand  among  the  fore- 
most of  the  hungry  hoard,  but  these  did  not  retreat 
— merely  leaped  back,  snarling,  to  lurk  in  the 
outer  shadows. 

Bill's  sleep  was  fitful.  The  snow  ceased  to  fall 
during  the  early  hours  of  the  night,  and  the  pair 
of  blankets  with  which  he  had  provided  himself 
proved  entirely  inadequate  protection  against  the 
steadily  increasing  cold. 

Time  and  again  he  awoke  and  replenished  the 
fire,  for,  no  matter  in  what  position  he  lay,  one 
side  of  his  body  seemed  freezing,  while  the  other 
toasted  uncomfortably  in  the  hot  glare  of  the 
flames.  And  always — just  at  the  rim  of  the  fire- 
light— sat  the  wolves,  waiting  in  their  ominous 
circle  of  silence. 

But  in  the  interims  between  these  awakenings 


102  The  Promise 

he  slept  profoundly,  oblivious  alike  to  discomfort 
and  danger — as  the  dead  sleep. 

At  the  first  hint  of  dawn  Bill  hastily  consumed 
the  last  of  his  unpalatable  food  and  resumed  his 
journey. 

Hour  after  hour  he  toiled  through  the  snow, 
and  always  the  wolf -pack  followed,  haunting  his 
trail  in  the  open  roadway  and  flanking  him  in  the 
deep  shade  of  the  evergreen  forest,  moving  tire- 
lessly through  the  loose  snow  in  long,  slow  leaps. 

Seventeen  of  them  he  counted — seventeen  mur- 
derous, ill-visaged  curs  of  the  savage  kill !  And  the 
leader  of  the  pack  was  a  very  demon  wolf.  A 
monstrous  female,  almost  pure  white,  huge,  mis- 
shapen, hideous — the  ultimate  harridan  of  the 
wolf -breed — she  stood  a  full  two  hands  above  the 
tallest  of  the  rank  and  file  of  her  evil  clan. 

The  foot  and  half  of  a  foreleg  had  been  left 
between  iron  jaws  where  she  had  gnawed  herself 
out  of  a  trap,  and  the  shrunken  stub,  depending 
from  a  withered  shoulder,  dragged  over  the  sur- 
face of  the  snow,  leaving  a  curious  mark  like  the 
trail  of  a  snake. 

The  remaining  foreleg  was  strong  and  thick 
and,  from  redistribution  of  balance,  slanted  in- 
ward from  the  massive  shoulder,  which  was 
developed  out  of  all  proportion  to  its  mate, 
giving  the  great  white  brute  a  repulsive,  lopsided 
appearance. 

The  long,  stiff  hair  stood  out  upon  her  neck  in  a 
great  ruff,  which  accentuated  the  fiendish  ferocity 


At  Bay  103 

of  her,  adding  a  hyena-like  slope  to  her  ungainly 
body.  But  it  was  in  the  expression  of  her  face 
that  she  reached  the  climax  of  hideous  malevolence. 

One  pointed  ear  stood  erect  upon  her  head, 
while  the  other,  mangled  and  torn  into  a  serried 
red  excrescence,  formed  the  termination  of  a 
broad,  ragged  scar  which  began  at  the  comer 
of  her  mouth,  giving  her  face  the  expression  of  a 
fiendish  grin  that  belied  the  green  glare  of  her 
venomous,  opalescent  eyes. 

The  loss  of  the  leg  seemed  in  nowise  to  hamper 
her  freedom  of  action.  She  moved  ceaselessly 
among  the  pack  with  a  peculiar  bounding  gallop, 
fawning  in  subtle  cajolery  upon  those  in  the  fore- 
front, slashing  right  and  left  among  the  laggards 
with  vicious  clicks  of  her  long,  white  fangs;  and 
always  she  watched  the  tiring  man  who  found  his 
own  gaze  fixed  upon  her  in  horrid  fascination. 

There  was  something  sinister  in  the  wolf-pack's 
noiseless  pursuit.  The  brutes  drew  nearer  as  the 
man's  pace  slowed  to  the  wearying  of  his  muscles. 

Instinctively  he  knew  that  at  the  last  there 
would  be  no  waiting — no  delay.  The  very  minute 
he  sank  exhausted  into  the  snow  they  would  be 
upon  him — the  great  white  leader  and  her  rapa- 
cious horde — and  in  his  imagination  he  could  feel 
the  viselike  clench  of  iron  jaws  and  the  tearing 
rip  with  which  the  quivering  flesh  would  be  stripped 
from  his  bones. 

At  midday  the  man  placed  the  sheath-knife  in 
his  belt  and  threw  away  the  pack.     Relieved  of  the 


104  The  Promise 

burden,  his  shoulders  felt  strangely  light.  There 
was  a  new  buoyancy  in  his  stride. 

But  the  relief  was  temporary,  and  as  the  sun 
sank  early  behind  the  pines  his  brain  was  again 
driving  his  wearied  muscles  to  their  work. 

The  wolves  were  following  close  in  now,  and 
the  silence  of  their  relentless  persistence  filled  the 
man  with  a  dumb  terror  which  no  pandemonium 
of  howling  could  have  inspired. 

His  advance  was  halting.  Each  step  was  a 
separate  and  conscious  undertaking,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  lifted  his  moccasins  clear 
of  the  snow. 

Suddenly  he  stumbled.  The  leaders  were  al- 
most upon  him  as  he  recovered  and  faced  them 
there  in  the  white  reach  of  the  tote-road.  They 
halted  just  out  of  reach  of  the  swing  of  his  axe, 
and  as  the  man  looked  into  their  glaring  eyes  a 
frenzy  of  unreasoning  fury  seized  him. 

His  nerves  could  no  longer  stand  the  strain. 
Something  seemed  to  snap  in  his  brain,  and 
through  his  veins  surged  the  spirit  of  his  fighting 
ancestors. 

A  sudden  memory  flash,  as  of  deeds  forgotten 
througn  long  ages,  and  with  it  came  strength — 
the  very  abandon  of  fierce,  brute  strength  of  a 
man  with  the  mind  to  kill. 

"Come  on!"  he  cried.  "Fight  it  out,  you 
fiends!  I  may  die,  but  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll  be 
hounded  to  death!  You  may  get  me,  but  you'll 
fight!    When  a  McKim  goes  down  some  one  pays! 


At  Bay  105 

And  if  it  is  die —     By  God !     There'll  be  fun  in  the 
dying!" 

With  a  weird  primordial  scream,  as  the  first 
man  might  have  screamed  in  the  face  of  the  first 
saber-tooth,  he  hurled  his  axe  among  them  and 
sprang  forward,  flashing  the  cold,  gray  blade  of  his 
sheath-knife ! 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   WERWOLF 

Now,  as  all  men  know,  Bill  Carmody  had  done 
a  most  foolish  and  insane  thing. 

But  the  very  audacity  of  his  act — and  the  god  of 
chance — favored  him,  for  as  the  axe  whizzed 
through  the  air  the  keen  edge  of  the  whirling  bit 
caught  one  of  the  larger  wolves  full  on  the  side  of 
the  head. 

There  followed  the  peculiar,  dull  scrunching 
sound  that  stands  alone  among  all  other  sounds, 
being  produced  by  no  other  thing  than  the  sudden 
crush  of  a  living  skull. 

The  front  and  side  of  the  skull  lifted  and  turned 
backward  upon  its  hinge  of  raw  scalp  and  the  wolf 
went  down,  clawing  and  biting,  and  over  the  snow 
flowed  thick  red  blood,  and  a  thicker  mucus  of  soft, 
wet  brains. 

At  the  sight  and  scent  of  the  warm  blood,  the 
companions  of  the  stricken  brute — the  gaunt ,  tire- 
less leaders,  who  had  traveled  beside  him  in  the 
van,  and  the  rag-tag  and  bobtail  alike — fell  upon 
him  tooth  and  nail,  and  the  silence  of  the  forest 

was  shattered  by  the  blood-cry  of  the  meat-getters. 

1 06 


The  Werwolf  107 

Not  so  the  great  she-wolf,  who  despised  these 
others  that  fought  among  themselves,  intent  only 
upon  the  satisfaction  of  their  hunger. 

Her  purpose  in  trailing  this  man  to  destruction 
was  of  deep  vengeance:  the  assuagement  of  an 
abysmal  hatred  that  smoldered  in  her  heart  against 
every  individual  of  the  terrible  man  kind,  whose 
cruel  traps  of  iron,  blades  of  steel,  and  leaden 
bullets  had  made  her  a  monstrous,  sexless  thing, 
feared  and  unsought  by  mating  males,  hated  of  her 
own  breed. 

And  now,  at  the  moment  she  had  by  the  cunning 
of  her  generalship  delivered  this  man  an  easy  prey 
to  her  followers,  they  deserted  her  and  fell  in  swin- 
ish greed  upon  the  first  meat  at  hand. 

So  that  at  the  last  she  faced  her  enemy  alone, 
and  the  smoldering  fury  of  her  heart  blazed  green 
from  her  wicked  eyes.  She  stood  tense  as  a  pointer, 
every  hair  of  her  long  white  coat  bristlingly  aquiver. 
Suddenly  she  threw  back  her  head,  pointed  her 
sharp  muzzle  to  the  sky,  and  gave  voice  to  the  long- 
drawn  ululation  which  is  the  battle-cry  of  wolves. 
Yet  it  was  not  the  wolf-cry,  for  long  ago  the 
malformation  of  a  healing  throat-wound  had  dis- 
torted the  bell-like  cry  into  a  hideous  scream  like 
the  shriek  of  a  soul  foredamned,  which  quavered 
loud  and  shrill  upon  the  keen  air  and  ended  in  a 
series  of  quick  jerks,  like  stabs  of  horrible  laughter. 
And  then,  with  tight-drawn  lips  and  jaws  agape, 
she  hurled  herself  straight  at  the  throat  of  the 
stumbling  man. 


108  The  Promise 

Darkness  was  gathering  when,  a  mile  to  the 
northward,  Jake  LaFranz  and  Irish  Fallon,  who 
were  laboring  with  six  big  horses  and  a  rough  log 
drag  to  break  out  the  trail,  suddenly  paused  to 
listen. 

Through  the  thin,  cold  air  rang  a  sound  the  like 
of  which  neither  had  ever  heard.  And  then,  as  if 
in  echo,  the  long-drawn  wail  of  the  great  white 
wolf. 

They  stared  at  each  other  white-lipped;  for 
that  last  cry  was  a  thing  men  talked  about  of  nights 
with  bated  breath  and  deep  curses.  Neither  had 
heard  it  before — nor  would  either  hear  it  again — 
but  each  recognized  the  sound  instinctively,  as  he 
would  recognize  the  sound  of  Gabriel's  trump. 

"It's  her!"  gasped  LaFranz.  "God  save  us! 
It's  Diablesse — the  loup-garou!" 

1 '  'Tis  none  other — that  last.  But,  man !  Man ! 
The  first  wan!  Was  it  a  human  cry  or  from  the 
throat  of  another  of  her  hell-begotten  breed?" 

Without  waiting  to  reply  the  Frenchman  swung 
the  big  six-team  in  their  tracks  and  headed  them 
toward  camp.  But  Irish  Fallon  reached  for  him 
as  he  fumbled  at  the  clevis. 

"  Howld  on,  ye  frog-eater !  Be  a  man !  If  'twas 
human  tore  loose  that  yell  he'll  be  the  bether  fer 
help,  notwithstandin'  there  was  more  av  foight  nor 
fear  in  th'  sound." 

"No,  no,  no!  It's  her!  It's  Diablesse!"  He 
crossed  himself. 

"Sure,  an'  ut  is;  bad  cess  to  her  altogether. 


The  Werwolf  109 

But  Oi  got  a  hear-rt  in  me  ribs  o'good  rid  blood  that 
takes  relish  now  an'  agin  in  a  bit  av  a  foight. 
An',  man  or  baste,  Oi  ain't  particular,  so  'tis  a 
good  wan.  Oi'll  be  goin'  down  th'  thrail  a  piece 
an'  see  phwat's  to  see.  Oi  ain't  axin'  ye  to  go 
'long.  Ye  poor  prayer-dhrivlin'  haythen,  wid  yer 
limon  av  a  hear-rt  ye've  got  a  yallar  shtripe  that 
raches  to  th'  length  an'  width  av  ye.  Ye'd  be  no 
good  nohow. 

"But  'tis  mesilf  ain't  fearin'  th'  evil  eye  av  th' 
werwolf — an'  she  is  called  be  the  name  av  th' 
divil's  own. 

' '  But  listen  ye  here,  ye  pea-soup  Frinchy !  Ye'll 
not  go  shnakin'  off  wid  thim  harses.  Ye'll  bide 
here  till  Oi  come  back." 

The  other  made  a  whimper  of  protest,  but  Irish 
Fallon  reached  out  a  great  hairy  hand  and  shook 
him  roughly. 

"Yez  moind  now,  an'  Oi  mane  ut!  Here  ye 
shtay.  An'  av  ye  ain't  here,  ye'd  bether  kape  on 
goin'.  F'r  th'  nixt  toime  Oi  lay  eyes  on  ye  Oi'll 
br-reak  ye  in  two !    An'  don't  ye  f ergit  ut ! " 

The  big  Irishman  turned  and  swung  down  the 
tote-road,  the  webs  of  his  rackets  leaving  a  broad 
trail  in  the  snow.  LaFranz  cowered  upon  the 
snow-plow  and  sought  refuge  in  craven  prayer  and 
curses  the  while  he  shot  frightened  glances  into  the 
darkening  forest. 

He  thought  of  cutting  the  horses  loose  and  start- 
ing them  for  camp  at  a  run.  But,  much  as  he 
feared  the  werwolf,  he  feared  Irish  Fallon  more; 


no  The  Promise 

for  many  were  the  tales  of  Fallon's  man-fights  when 
his  "Irish  was  up." 

When  the  white  wolf  sprang  the  man  had  nearly 
reached  the  snarling  pack.  Before  him,  scarcely 
six  feet  away,  lay  his  axe,  the  blade  smeared  with 
blood  and  brains,  to  which  clung  stiff  gray  hairs. 

Instinctively  he  ducked  and,  as  the  huge  form 
flashed  past,  his  right  arm,  shot  out  straight  from 
the  shoulder.  The  long,  clean  blade  entered  just 
at  the  point  of  the  brisket  and,  ranging  upward, 
was  buried  to  the  haft  as  the  knife  was  torn  from 
his  grasp. 

One  step  and  the  man's  fingers  closed  about  the 
helve  of  his  axe,  and  he  whirled  to  meet  the  second 
onslaught. 

But  there  was  small  need.  The  great  brute 
stood  still  in  her  tracks  and,  with  lowered  head, 
snapped  and  wrenched  at  the  thing  that  bit  into  her 
very  lungs. 

The  stag-horn  plates  of  the  protruding  hilt 
were  splintered  under  the  clamp  of  the  mighty 
jaws,  and  the  long,  gleaming  teeth  made  deep  dents 
in  the  brass  beneath.  Ker  lips  reddened,  and 
before  her  the  snow  was  flecked  with  blood. 

All  this  the  man  took  in  at  a  glance  without  con- 
scious impression.  Ke  gripped  his  weapon  and 
sprang  among  the  fighting  pack,  which  ripped  and 
dragged  at  the  carcass  of  the  dead  wolf. 

Right  and  left  he  struck  in  a  reckless  fume  of 
ferocity,   which   spoke   of   unreasoning   fights   in 


The  Werwolf  in 

worlds  of  savage  firstlings.  And  under  the  smash- 
ing blows  of  the  axe  wolves  went  down — skulls  split, 
spines  crushed,  ribs  caved  in — a  side  at  a  stroke, 
and  shoulders  were  cloven  clean  and  deep  to  pink 
sponge  lungs. 

As  if  realizing  that  her  hurt  was  mortal,  the 
great  she-wolf  abandoned  her  attack  on  the  knife- 
haft  and,  summoning  her  strength  for  a  supreme 
effort,  sprang  straight  into  the  midst  of  the  red 
shambles. 

The  man,  caught  unawares,  went  down  under 
the  impact  of  her  body.  For  one  fleeting  second 
he  stared  upward  into  blazing  eyes.  From  be- 
tween wide-sprung  rows  of  flashing  fangs  the 
blood-dripping  tongue  seemed  to  writhe  from  the 
cavernous  throat,  and  the  foul  breath  blew  hot 
against  his  face.  Instantly  his  strong  fingers 
buried  themselves  in  the  shaggy  fur  close  under 
the  hinge  of  the  jaw,  while  his  other  hand  closed 
about  the  dented  brass  of  the  protruding  knife-hilt. 

With  the  whole  strength  of  his  arm  he  held  the 
savage  jaws  from  his  face  as  he  wrenched  and 
twisted  at  the  firmly  embedded  knife.  Finally  it 
loosened,  and  as  the  thick-backed  blade  was  with- 
drawn from  the  wound  it  was  followed  by  spurt 
after  spurt  of  blood — bright,  frothy  blood,  straight 
from  the  lungs,  which  gushed  hot  and  wet  over 
him. 

Blindly  he  struck;  stabbing,  thrusting,  slashing 
at  the  great  form  which  was  pressing  him  deepei 
and  deeper  into  the  snow.     Again  and  again  the 


ii2  The  Promise 

knife  was  turned  against  rib  and  shoulder-blade, 
inflicting  only  shallow  surface  wounds. 

At  length  a  heavy,  straight  upthrust  encountered 
no  obstacle  of  bone,  and  the  blade  bit  deep  and 
deeper  into  living  flesh. 

As  with  a  final  effort  the  knife  was  driven  home, 
a  convulsive  shiver  racked  the  body  of  the  great 
white  wolf,  and  with  a  low,  gurgling  moan  of  agony 
her  jaws  set  rigid,  her  muscles  stiffened,  and  she 
toppled  sidewise  into  the  snow,  where  she  lay 
twitching  spasmodically  with  glazing  eyes. 

Bill  staggered  weakly  to  his  feet. 

The  uninjured  wolves  had  vanished,  leaving 
their  dead  upon  the  snow,  while  the  wounded  left 
flat,  red  trails  as  they  .sought  to  drag  their  broken 
bodies  to  the  cover  of  the  forest. 

Irish  Fallon  rounded  a  turn  of  the  tote-road. 
He  brought  up  sharply  and  stared  open-mouthed 
at  the  man  who,  sheath-knife  in  hand,  stood  look- 
ing down  at  an  indistinct  object  which  lay  upon  the 
blood-trampled  snow. 

Carmody  turned  and  shouted  a  greeting,  but 
without  a  word  the  Irishman  advanced  to  his  side 
until  he,  too,  stood  looking  down  at  the  thing  in 
the  snow.  Suddenly  Bill's  hand  was  seized  in  a 
mighty  grip. 

"Man!  Tis  her,  an'  no  mistake!  She's  done 
for  at  lasht — an'  blade  to  fang,  in  open  foight  ye've 
knoif ed  her !  Sure,  'tis  a  gr-rand  toime  ye've  had 
altogether, "  he  said,  glancing  at  the  carcasses,  "  wid 
six  dead  besides  her  an'  three  more  as  good  as. " 


The  Werwolf  113 

Bill  laughed:  "This  wolf — the  big  white  one- 
seems  to  enjoy  a  reputation,  then?" 

"R-r-reputation!  R-r-reputation,  isut?  Good 
Lord,  man!  Don't  ye  know  her?  Tis  th'  wer- 
wolf! D'ablish,  th'  loup-garou,  the  Frinchies  call 
her;  an'  the  white  divil,  the  Injuns — an'  good  ray- 
son,  f'r  to  me  own  knowledge  she's  kilt  foive  folks, 
big  an'  shmall,  an'  some  Injuns  besides.  They 
claim  she's  a  divil,  an'  phwin  she  howls,  'tis  because 
some  sowl  has  missed  th'  happy  huntin'  grounds-in 
th'  dyin',  an'  she's  laughin'." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  blame  them,"  said  Bill. 
"She  favored  me  with  a  vocal  selection.  And, 
believe  me,  she  was  no  mocking-bird." 

"Well,  she  looks  dead,  now,"  grinned  Fallon; 
"but  we'd  besht  make  sure.  Owld  man  Fronte- 
nelle  kilt  her  wunst.  Seven  year  back,  ut  was 
over  on  Monish. 

"He  shot  her  clean  t'rough  th'  neck  an'  dhrug 
her  to  his  cabin  be  th'  tail.  He  was  for  skinnin' 
her  flat  f'r  th'  robe  she'd  make.  He  had  her 
stretched  out  phwin  wid  a  flash  an'  a  growl,  she  was 
at  urn,  an'  wid  wan  clap  av  th'  jaws  she  ripped 
away  face  an'  half  th'  scalp. 

"They  found  urn  wanderin'  blind  on  th'  lake 
ice  an'  carried  um  to  Skelly's  phwere  he  died  in 
tin  days'  toime  av  hydrophoby,  shnarlin'  an' 
bitin'  at  folks  till  they  had  to  chain  um  in  th' 
shtoreroom. " 

As  he  spoke,  Fallon  picked  up  the  axe,  and  with 
several  well-directed  blows  shattered  the  skull  of 


ii4  The  Promise 

the  werwolf  against  any  possibility  of  a  repetition 
of  the  Frontenelle  incident. 

"But  come,  man,  get  yer  rackets  an'  we'll  be 
hittin'  the  thrail  f'r  camp.  Sure,  Frinchy'll 
be  scairt  shtiff  av  we  lave  um  longer. " 

"Rackets?"  asked  Bill,  with  a  look  of  per- 
plexity. 

"Yer  shnow  shoes,  av  coorse. " 

"Haven't  got  any.  And  I  don't  suppose  I  could 
use  them  if  I  had."  The  other  stared  at  him 
incredulously. 

"Not  got  any!    Thin  how'd  ye  git  here?" 

"Walked — or  rather,  stumbled  along." 

"Phwerefrom?" 

"It  started  to  snow  as  I  left  the  old  shack — the 
last  one  this  way,  I  don't  know  how  far  back.  It 
was  there  I  traded  my  boots  to  an  Indian  for 
these."     He  extended  a  moccasined  foot. 

1 '  'Tis  a  good  job  ye  traded.  But  even  at  that — 
thirty-foive  moile  t'rough  th'  snow  widout  webs!" 
The  Irishman  looked  at  him  in  open  admiration. 
"An'  on  top  av  that,  killin'  th'  werwolf  wid  a 
knoife,  an'  choppin'  her  pack  loike  so  much  kind- 
lin's !  Green,  ye  may  be — an  'ignorant.  But,  frind, 
ye've  done  a  man's  job  this  day,  an'  Oi'm 
pr-roud  to  know  yez. " 

Again  he  extended  his  hand  and  Bill  seized  it  in 
a  strong  grip.  Somehow,  he  did  not  resent  being 
called  green,  and  ignorant — he  was  learning  the 
North. 

"Fallon's  me  name,"  the  other  continued,  "an' 


The  Werwolf  115 

be  an  accident  av  birth,  Oi'm  called  Oirish,  f'r 
short." 

"Mine  is  Bill,  which  is  shorter,"  replied  Car- 
mody,  smiling. 

For  just  a  second  Irish  hesitated  as  if  expecting 
further  enlightenment,  but,  receiving  none,  reached 
down  and  grasped  the  tail  of  the  white  wolf. 

"Tis  a  foine  robe  she'll  make,  Bill,  an'  in  th' 
North,  among  white  min  an'  Injuns,  'twill  give  ye 
place  an'  shtandin' — but  not  wid  Moncrossen," 
he  added  with  a  frown. 

"Come  on  along.  Poller  yez  in  behint,  f'r  th* 
thrail'll  be  fair  br-roke.  Phwat  wid  two  thrips  wid 
th'  rackets  an'  th'  dhrag  av  th'  wolf,  'twill  not  be 
bad.  'Tis  only  a  mather  av  twinty  minutes  to 
phwere  Frinchy'll  bether  be  waitin'  wid  th' 
harses. " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MONCROSSEN 

They  found  LaFranz  waiting  in  fear  and  trem- 
bling. The  heavy  snow-plow  was  left  in  readiness 
for  the  morrow's  trail-breaking,  and  the  horses 
hitched  to  a  rough  sled  and  headed  for  camp. 

"An'  ye  say  Misther  Appleton  sint  ye  up  to 
wor-rk  in  Moncrossen's  camp?"  The  two  were 
seated  on  the  log  bunk  at  the  back  of  the  sled 
while  the  Frenchman  drove,  keeping  a  fearful  eye 
on  the  white  wolf.  For  old  man  Frontenelle  had 
been  his  uncle. 

"Yes,  he  told  me  to  report  here. " 

"D'ye  know  Moncrossen?" 

"No." 

"Well,  ye  will,  ag'in'  shpring, "  Irish  replied 
dryly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Bill. 

Irish  shrugged.  "Oi  mane  this,"  he  answered. 
"Moncrossen  is  a  har-rd  man  altogether.  He 
hates  a  greener.  He  thinks  no  wan  but  an  owld 
hand  has  any  business  in  th'  woods,  an'  'tis  his 
boast  that  in  wan  season  he'll  make  a  lumberjack 
or  a  corpse  out  av  any  greener. 

116 


Moncrossen  117 

"An'  comin'  from  Appleton  hisself  he'll  hate  ye 
worse'n  ever,  f 'r  he'll  think  ye'll  be  afther  crimpin' 
his  bird's-eye  game.  Take  advice,  Bill,  an'  kape 
on  th'  good  side  av  urn  av  ye  can.  He'll  t'row 
ut  into  ye  wid  all  manner  av  dhirty  thricks,  but 
howld  ye're  timper,  an'  maybe  ye'll  winter  ut  out — 
an'  maybe  ye  won't. " 

"What  is  a  bird's-eye  game?" 

Fallon  glanced  at  him  sharply.  "D'ye  mane  ye 
don't  know  about  th'  bird's-eye?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  a  thing, "  replied  Bill. 

"Thin  listen  to  me.  Don't  ye  niver  say  bird's- 
eye  in  this  camp  av  ye  expect  to  winter  ut  out. " 

Bill  was  anxious  to  hear  more  about  the  myste- 
rious bird's-eye,  but  the  sled  suddenly  emerged 
into  a  wide  clearing  and  Irish  was  pointing  out  the 
various  buildings  of  the  log  camp. 

Bright  squares  of  light  showed  from  the  windows 
of  the  bunk-house,  office,  and  grub-shack,  with  its 
adjoining  cook-shack,  from  the  iron  stovepipe  of 
which  sparks  shot  skyward  in  a  continuous 
shower. 

Fallon  shouldered  the  wolf  and,  accompanied  by 
Bill,  made  toward  the  bunk-house,  while  the 
Frenchman  turned  the  team  toward  the  stable. 

"Ag'in'  we  git  washed  up,  supper'll  be  ready," 
announced  Irish,  as  he  deposited  the  wolf  carcass 
beside  the  door  and  entered. 

Inside  the  long,  low  room,  lined  on  either  side 
by  a  double  row  of  bunks,  were  gathered  upward  of 
a  hundred  men  waiting  the  supper  call. 


n8  The  Promise 

They  were  big  men,  for  the  most  part,  rough  clad 
and  unshaven.  Man}?-  were  seated  upon  the  edges 
of  the  bunks  smoking  and  talking,  others  grouped 
about  the  three  big  stoves,  and  the  tobacco-reeking 
air  was  laden  with  the  rumble  of  throaty  conversa- 
tion, broken  here  and  there  by  the  sharp  scratch 
of  a  match,  a  loud  laugh,  or  a  deep-growled,  good- 
natured  curse. 

Into  this  assembly  stepped  Irish  Fallon,  closely 
followed  by  Bill,  the  sight  of  whose  blood-stained 
face  attracted  grinning  attention.  The  two  men 
passed  the  length  of  the  room  to  the  wash-bench, 
where  a  few  loiterers  still  splashed  noisily  at  their 
ablutions. 

"I  heard  it  plain,  I'm  tellin'  you,"  some  one 
was  saying.     "  'Way  off  to  the  south  it  sounded.  " 

"That  ain't  no  lie,"  broke  in  another,  "I  hearn 
it  myself — jest  before  dark,  it  was.  An'  I  know! 
Didn't  I  hear  it  that  night  over  on  Ten  Fork?  The 
time  she  got  Jack  Kane's  woman,  four  year  ago, 
come  Chris'mus.  Yes,  sir!  I  tell  you  the  wer- 
wolf's nigh  about  this  camp,  an'  it's  me  in  off  the 
edges  afore  dark!" 

"They  say  she  never  laughs  but  she  makes  a 
kill, "  said  one. 

"God!  I  was  at  Skelly's  when  they  brought 
old  man  Frontenelle  in, "  added  a  big  man,  whose 
heavy  beard  was  shot  with  gray,  as  he  turned  from 
the  stove  with  a  shudder. 

"They's  some  Injuns  trappin'  below;  she  might 
of  got  one  of  them, "  opined  a  short,  stockily  built 


Moncrossen  119 

man    who,    catching    sight    of    the    newcomers, 
addressed  Fallon: 

"Hey,  Irish,  you  was  down  on  the  tote-road; 
did  you  hear  Diablesse?" 

Fallon  finished  drying  his  face  upon  the  coarse 
roller-towel  and  turned  toward  the  group  who 
waited  expectantly.  "Yis,  Oi  hear-rd  her,  all 
roight,"  he  replied  lightly.  "An'  thin  Oi  see'd 
her." 

Others  crowded  about,  hanging  upon  his  words. 
"An'  thin,  be  way  av  showin'  me  contimpt, "  he 
added,  ' '  Oi  dhrug  her  a  moile  or  more  t'rough  th' 
woods  be  th'  tail." 

Loud  laughter  followed  this  assertion ;  but  not  a 
few,  especially  among  the  older  men,  shook  their 
heads  in  open  disapproval,  and  muttered  curses 
at  his  levity. 

"But  me  frind  Bill,  here, "  Irish  continued,  "c'n 
tell  ye  more  about  her'n  phwat  Oi  kin.  He's  new 
in  th'  woods,  Bill  is;  an'  so  damned  green  he  know'd 
nayther  th'  manein'  nor  use  av  th'  rackets.  So,  be 
gad,  he  come  widout  'em.  Mushed  two  whole 
days  t'rough  th'  shnow. 

"But,  listen;  no  mather  how  ignorant,  nor  how 
much  he  don't  know,  a  good  man's  a  man- — an' 
to  pr-rove  ut  he  jumps  wid  his  axe  roight  into  th' 
middle  av  th'  werwolf's  own  an'  kills  noine, 
countin  th'  three  cripples  Oi  finished. 

"But  wid  D'ablish  herself,  moind,  he  t'row'd 
away  his  axe  an'  goes  to  a  clinch  wid  his  knoife  in 
his  fisht.     An'  phwin  'tis  over  an'  he  picks  him- 


120  The  Promise 

silf  up  out  av  th'  shnow  an'  wipes  th'  blood  from 
his  eyes — her  blood — f  'r  he  comes  out  av  ut  widout 
scratch  nor  scar — D'ablish  lays  at  his  feet  dead  as 
a  nit." 

Fallon  gazed  triumphantly  into  the  incredulous 
faces  of  the  men,  and,  with  a  smile,  added,  "  'Twas 
thin  Oi  dhrug  her  be  th'  tail  to  th'  sled,  afther 
shmashin'  her  head  wid  th'  axe  to  make  sure.  " 

"An'  where  is  she  now,  Irish?"  mocked  one. 
"Did  she  jump  off  the  sled  an'  make  a  get- 
away?" 

Over  at  the  grub -shack  the  cook's  half-breed 
helper  beat  lustily  upon  the  discarded  saw-blade 
that  hung  suspended  by  a  wire,  and  the  men 
crowded  noisily  out  of  the  doors. 

"Oi'll  show  ye  afther  supper,  ye  damned  shpal- 
peen,  how  much  av  her  got  away!"  shouted  Irish, 
who  waited  for  Bill  to  remove  the  evidence  of  his 
fight  before  piloting  him  to  the  grub -shack. 

A  single  table  of  rough  lumber  covered  with 
brown  oilcoth  extended  the  full  length  of  the  center 
of  the  room.  Above  this  table  six  huge  "Chicago 
burners"  lighted  the  interior,  which,  as  the  two 
men  entered,  was  a  hive  of  noisy  activity. 

Men  scuffled  for  places  upon  the  stationary 
benches  arranged  along  either  side  of  the  table. 
Heavy  porcelain  thumped  th©  board,  and  the  air 
was  filled  with  the  metallic  din  of  steel  knives  and 
forks  being  gathered  into  bearlike  hands. 

Up  and  down  the  wide  alleys  behind  the  benches 
hurried  flunkies  bearing  huge  tin  pots  of  steaming 


Moncrossen  121 

coffee,  and  the  incessant  returning  of  thick  cups 
to  their  saucers  was  like  the  rattle  of  musketry. 

But  the  thing  that  impressed  the  half -famished 
Bill  was  the  profusion  of  food;  never  in  his  life, 
he  thought,  had  he  beheld  so  tempting  an  array 
of  things  to  eat.  Great  trenchers  of  fried  pork, 
swimming  in  its  own  grease,  alternated  the  full 
length  of  the  table  with  huge  pans  of  baked  beans. 

Mountains  of  light,  snowy  bread  rose  at  short 
intervals  from  among  foot-hills  of  baked  potatoes, 
steaming  dishes  of  macaroni  and  stewed  tomatoes, 
canned  corn,  peas,  and  apple  sauce,  and  great 
yellow  rolls  of  butter  into  which  the  knives  of  the 
men  skived  deeply. 

The  two  passed  behind  the  benches  in  search  of 
vacant  places  when  suddenly  an  undersized 
flunky  stumbled  awkwardly,  dropping  the  coffee- 
pot, which  sent  a  wash  of  steaming  brown  liquid 
over  the  floor. 

Instantly  a  great,  hulking  man  with  a  wide,  flat 
face  and  low  forehead  surmounted  by  a  thick 
thatch  of  black  hair,  below  which  two  swinish  eyes 
scintillated  unevenly,  paused  in  the  act  of  raising 
a  great  calk-booted  foot  over  the  bench. 

The  thick,  pendulous  lips  under  his  ragged 
mustache  curled  backward,  exposing  a  crenate  row 
of  jagged  brown  teeth.  He  stepped  directly  in 
front  of  the  two  men  and,  reaching  out  a  thick  hand 
caught  the  unfortunate  flunky  by  the  scruff  as  he 
regained  his  balance. 

From  his  lips  poured  an  unbroken  stream  of  vile 


122  The  Promise 

epithets  and  soul-searing  curses  while  he  shook 
the  whimpering  wretch  with  a  violence  that 
threatened  serious  results,  and  ended  by  pinning 
him  against  the  log  wall  and  drawing  back  his  huge 
arm  for  a  terrific  shoulder  blow. 

The  vicious  brutality  of  the  attack  following  so 
trivial  an  offense  aroused  Bill  Carmody's  anger. 
The  man's  back  was  toward  him,  and  Bill  grasped 
the  back-drawn  arm  at  the  wrist  and  with  an 
ungentle  jerk  whirled  the  other  in  his  tracks. 

The  man  released  the  flunky  and  faced  him  with 
a  snarl.     "Who  done  that?"  he  roared. 

"I  did.     Hit  me.     I  tripped  him." 

Bill's  voice  was  dead  level  and  low,  but  it  carried 
to  the  farthest  reaches  of  the  room,  over  which  had 
fallen  a  silence  of  expectation.  Men  saw  that  the 
hard  gray  eyes  of  the  stranger  narrowed  ominously. 

"An'  who  the  hell  are  you?'1''  The  words 
whistled  through  the  bared  teeth  and  a  flush  of 
firry  flooded  the  man's  face. 

' '  What  do  you  care ?  I  tripped  him.  Hit  me!" 
and  the  low,  level  tone  blended  into  silence.  It 
seemed  a  tiling — that  uncanny  silence  when  noise 
should  have  been. 

There  were  sounds — sounds  that  no  one  heeded 
nor  heard — the  heavy  breathing  of  a  hundred  men 
waiting  for  something  to  happen — the  thin  creak 
of  the  table  boards  as  men  leaned  forward  upon 
hands  whose  knuckles  whitened  under  the  red  skin, 
and  stared,  fascinated,  at  the  two  big  men  who 
faced  each  other  in  the  broad  aisle. 


Moncrossen  123 

The  swinish  eyes  of  the  brutish  man  glared 
malignantly  into  the  gray  eyes  of  the  stranger,  in 
which  there  appeared  no  slightest  nicker  of  rage 
nor  hate,  nor  any  other  emotion. 

Only  a  cold,  hard  stare  which  held  something  of 
terrible  intensity,  accentuated  by  the  little  fans 
of  whitening  wrinkles  which  radiated  from  their 
corners. 

In  that  instant  the  other's  gaze  wavered.  He 
knew  that  this  man  had  lied;  and  he  knew  that 
every  man  in  the  room  knew  that  he  had  lied. 
That  he  had  deliberately  lied  into  the  row  and 
then,  without  raising  his  guard,  had  dared  him 
to  strike. 

It  was  inconceivable. 

Had  the  man  loudly  shouted  his  challenge  or 
thrown  up  his  guard  when  he  dared  him  to  strike, 
or  had  his  eye  twitched  or  burned  with  anger,  he 
would  have  unhesitatingly  lunged  into  a  fight  to 
the  finish. 

But  he  found  himself  at  a  disadvantage.  He 
was  up  against  something  he  did  not  understand. 
The  calm  assurance  of  the  stranger — his  fists  were 
not  doubled  and  his  lips  smiled — disconcerted  him. 

A  strange,  prickly  chill  tingled  at  the  back  of 
his  neck,  and  in  his  heart  he  knew  that  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  dared  not  strike  a  man. 
He  cast  about  craftily  to  save  his  face  and  took  his 
cue  from  the  other's  smile.  With  an  effort  his 
loose,  thick  lips  twisted  into  a  grin. 

"G'wan  with  yer  jokin',  stranger,"  he  laughed. 


124  The  Promise 

"Y'u  damn  near  made  me  mad — fer  a  minute," 
and  he  turned  to  the  table. 

Instantly  a  clatter  of  noise  broke  forth.  Men 
rattled  dishes  nervously  in  relief  or  disappoint- 
ment, and  the  room  was  filled  with  the  rumble  of 
voices  in  unmeaning  chatter.  But  in  the  quick 
glances  which  passed  from  man  to  man  there  was 
much  of  meaning. 

"God,  man,  that  was  Moncrossen!"  whispered 
Fallon,  when  the  two  found  themselves  seated 
near  the  end  of  the  table.     Bill  smiled. 

"Was  it?"  he  asked.     "I  don't  like  him." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  TWO-FISTED  MAN 

A  half-hour  later  when  Bill  sought  out  the  boss 
in  the  little  office,  the  latter  received  him  in  surly 
silence;  and  as  he  read  Appleton's  note  his  Up 
curled. 

"So  you  think  you'll  make  a  lumberjack,  do 

you?"  ' 

"Yes."  There  was  no  hesitation;  nothing  of 
doubt  in  the  reply. 

"My  crew's  full,"  the  boss  growled.  "I  don't 
need  no  men,  let  alone  a  greener  that  don't  know 
a  peavey  from  a  bark  spud.  Wha'd  the  old  man 
send  you  up  here  for,  anyhow?"    - 

"That,  I  presume,  is  his  business." 

"  Oh,  it  is,  is  it?  Well,  let  me  tell  you  first  off— 
I'm  boss  of  this  here  camp ! "  Moncrossen  paused 
and  glared  at  the  younger  man.  "You  get  that, 
do  you?  Just  you  remember  that  what  I  say  goes, 
an'  I  don't  take  no  guff  offen  no  man,  not  even  one 
of  the  old  man's  pets — an'  that's  my  business — 
see?" 

Bill  smiled  as  the  scowling  man  crushed  the  note 
in  his  hand  and  slammed  it  viciously  into  the  wood- 
box. 

125 


126  The  Promise 

"Wants  you  broke  in,  does  he?  All  right;  I'll 
break  you!  Ag'in'  spring  you'll  know  a  little 
somethin'  about  logs,  or  you'll  be  so  damn  sick  of 
the  woods  you'll  run  every  time  you  hear  a  log 
chain  rattle;  an'  either  way,  you'll  learn  who's 
boss  of  this  here  camp. " 

Moncrossen  sank  his  yellow  teeth  into  a  thick 
plug  of  tobacco  and  tore  off  the  corner  with  a 
jerk. 

"Throw  yer  blankets  into  an  empty  bunk  an' 
be  ready  fer  work  in  the  mornin'.  I'll  put  you 
swampin'  fer  the  big  Swede — I  guess  that  '11  hold 
you.  Yer  wages  is  forty-five  a  month — an'  I'm 
right  here  to  see  that  you  earn  'em. " 

"Can  I  buy  blankets  here?  I  threw  mine 
away  coming  out. " 

"Comin'  out!  Comin'  in,  you  mean!  Men 
come  in  to  the  woods.  In  the  spring  they  go  out — ■ 
if  they're  lucky.  Get  what  you  want  over  to  the 
van;  it'll  be  charged  ag'in'  yer  wages."  Bill 
turned  toward  the  door. 

"By  the  way,"  the  boss  growled,  "what's  yer 
name — back  where  you  come  from?" 

"Bill." 

"Bill  what?" 

"No.  Just  Bill — with  a  period  for  a  full  stop. 
And  that's  my  business — see?"  As  Moncrossen 
encountered  the  level  stare  of  the  gray  eyes  he 
leered  knowingly. 

"Oh,  that's  it,  eh?  All  right, Bill!  'Curiosity 
killed  the  cat, '  as  the  feller  says.     An'  just  don't 


A  Two-Fisted  Man  127 

forget  to  remember  that  what  a  man  don't  know 
don't  hurt  him  none.  Loggin'  is  learned  in  the 
choppin's.  Accidents  happens ;  an'  dead  men  tells 
no  tales.  Them  that  keeps  their  eyes  to  the  front 
an'  minds  their  own  business  gen'ally  winters 
through.     That's  all." 

Bill  wondered  at  the  seemingly  irrelevant  utter- 
ances of  the  boss,  but  left  the  office  without  com- 
ment. 

On  the  floor  of  the  bunk-house  Irish  Fallon, 
assisted  by  several  of  the  men,  was  removing  the 
skin  from  Diablesse,  while  others  looked  on. 

The  awkward  hush  that  fell  upon  them  as  he 
entered  told  Bill  that  he  had  been  the  subject  of 
their  conversation.  Men  glanced  at  him  covertly, 
as  though  taking  his  measure,  and  he  soon  found 
himself  relating  the  adventures  of  the  trail  to  an 
appreciative  audience,  which  grinned  approval 
and  tendered  flasks,  which  he  declined. 

Later,  as  he  helped  Fallon  nail  the  wolfskin  to 
the  end  of  the  bunk-house  he  told  him  of  the  inter- 
view with  Moncrossen.  The  Irishman  listened, 
frowning. 

"Ye've  made  a  bad  shtar-rt  wid  urn,"  he  said, 
shaking  his  head.  "Ye  eyed  'im  down  in  th' 
grub-shack,  an'  he  hates  ye  fer  ut.  How  ye  got  by 
wid  ut  Oi  don't  know,  fer  he's  a  scr-rapper  from 
away  back,  an'  av  he'd  sailed  into  ye  Oi'm  thinkin' 
he'd  knocked  th'  divilout  av  ye,  fer  he's  had  experi- 
ence, which  ye  ain't.  But  he  didn't  dast  to,  an' 
he  knows  ut,  an'  he  knows  that  the  men  knows  ut. 


128  The  Promise 

An'  now  he'll  lay  fer  a  chanst  to  git  aven.  Ut's  th* 
besht  ye  c'n  do — loike  he  says,  kape  th'  two  eyes 
av  ye  to  th'  front  an'  moind  yer  own  business — 
only  kape  wan  eye  behint  ye  to  look  out  fer 
throuble.     Phwat  fer  job  did  he  give  yez?  " 

"I  am  to  start  swamping,  whatever  that  is,  for 
the  big  Swede." 

The  Irishman  grinned. 

"  Oi  thoucht  so ;  an'  may  God  have  mercy  on  yer 

1  >♦ 
sowl. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  Swede?" 

"Mather  enough.     Bein'  hand  an'  glove  wid 

Moncrossen  is  good  ray  son  to  suspicion  any  man. 

Fer  t'is  be  the  help  av  Shtromberg  that  Moncrossen 

kapes  a  loine  on  th'  men  an'  gits  by  wid  his  crooked 

wor-rk. 

"He  ain't  long  on  brains  nohow,  Moncrossen 
ain't,  an'  he  ain't  a  good  camp-boss  nayther,  fer 
all  he  gits  out  th'  logs. 

"Be  bluff  an'  bullyin'  he  gits  th'  wor-rk  out  av 
th'  crew;  but  av  ut  wasn't  that  Misther  Appleton 
lets  um  pay  a  bit  over  goin'  wages,  he'd  have  no 
crew,  fer  th'  men  hate  um  fer  all  they're  afraid  av 

um. 

"Th'  rayson  he  puts  ye  shwampin'  fer  th'  big 
Swede  is  so's  he'll  kape  an  eye  on  yez.  As  long 
as  ye  do  yer  wor-rk  an'  moind  yer  own  business 
ye'll  get  along  wid  him  as  well  as  another.  But, 
moind  ye,  phwin  th'  bird's-eye  shtar-rts  movin' 
ye  don't  notice  nothin,'  or  some  foine  avenin'  ye'll 
turn  up  missin'." 


A  Two-Fisted  Man  129 

"What  is  this  bird's-eye  thing?"  asked  Bill. 
"What  has  it  got  to  do  with  Moncrossen — and 
me?" 

The  Irishman  considered  the  question  and, 
without  answering,  walked  to  the  corner  of  the 
bunk-house  near  which  they  were  standing  and 
peered  into  the  black  shadow  of  the  wall.  Appar- 
ently satisfied,  he  returned  again  to  where  Eill  was 
standing. 

"Come  on  in  th'  bunk-house,  now,"  he  said. 
"  I  want  to  locate  Shtromberg  an'  wan  or  two  more. 
We'll  sit  around  an'  shmoke  a  bit,  an'  phwin  they 
begin  rollin'  in  ye'll  ask  me  phwere  is  th'  van,  fer 
ye  must  have  blankets  an'  phwat  not.  Oi'll  go 
along  to  show  ye,  an'  we'll  take  a  turn  down  th' 
tote-road  phwere  we  c'n  talk  widout  its  gittin* 
to  th'  ears  av  th'  boss. " 

Wondering  at  the  man's  precautions  for  secrecy, 
he  followed,  and  for  a  half -hour  listened  to  the 
fireside  gossip  of  the  camp.  He  noticed  that 
Fallon's  glance  traveled  over  the  various  groups 
as  if  seeking  some  one,  and  he  wondered  which  of 
the  men  was  Stromberg. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  flung  open  and  a  huge, 
yellow-bearded  man  stamped  noisily  to  the  stove, 
disregarding  the  curses  that  issued  from  the  bunks 
of  those  who  had  already  turned  in. 

This  man  was  larger  even  than  Moncrossen,  with 
protruding  eyes  of  china  blue,  which  stared  weakly 
from  beneath  heavy,  straw-colored  eyebrows. 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  thought  Bill,  as 


130  The  Promise 

the  man,  snorting  disagreeably,  paused  before  him 
and  fixed  him  with  an  insolent  stare. 

"Hey,  you!  Boss  says  you  swamp  for  me,"  he 
snorted.     Bill  nodded  indifferently. 

"You  know  how  to  swamp  good?"  he  asked. 
Bill  studied  the  toes  of  his  moccasins  and,  without 
looking  up,  replied  with  a  negative  shake  of  his 
head. 

"I  learn  you,  all  right.  In  couple  days  you 
swamp  good,  or  I  fix  you." 

Bill  looked  up,  encountered  the  watery  glare  of 
the  blue  eyes,  and  returned  his  gaze  to  the  points 
of  his  moccasins.  The  voice  of  the  Swede  grew 
more  aggressive.  He  snorted  importantly  as  the 
men  looked  on,  and  smote  his  palm  with  a  pon- 
derous fist. 

"First  thing,  I  duck  you  in  waterhole.  Then 
I  slap  you  to  peak  an'  break  off  the  peak."  The 
men  snickered,  and  Stromberg,  emboldened  by  the 
silence  of  his  new  swamper,  continued : 

"It's  time  boys  was  in  bed.  To-morrow  I 
make  you  earn  your  wages. " 

Bill  rose  slowly  from  his  seat,  and  as  he  looked 
again  into  the  face  of  the  big  Swede  his  lips  smiled. 
But  Fallon  noticed,  and  others,  that  in  the  steely 
glint  of  the  gray  eyes  was  no  hint  of  smile,  and  they 
watched  curiously  while  he  removed  his  mackinaw 
and  tossed  it  carelessly  onto  the  edge  of  a  near-by 
bunk  from  where  it  slipped  unnoticed  to  the  floor. 
Stromberg  produced  a  bottle,  drank  deep,  and 
returned  the  flask  to  his  pocket.     He  rasped  the 


A  Two-Fisted  Man  131 

fire  from  his  throat  with  a  harsh,  grating  sound, 
drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  mouth,  and 
kicked  contemptuously  at  the  mackinaw  which  lay 
almost  at  his  feet. 

As  he  did  so  a  long,  thick  envelope,  to  which  was 
tightly  bound  the  photograph  of  a  girl,  slipped 
from  the  inner  pocket.  Instantly  he  stooped  and 
seized  it. 

"Haw,  haw!"  he  roared,  "the  greener's  got  a 

woman.     Look,  she's  a " 

"Drop  that!"  The  voice  was  low,  almost  soft 
in  tone,  but  the  words  cut  quick  and  clear,  with 
no  hint  of  gentleness. 

"Come  get  it,  greener!"  The  man  taunted  as 
he  doubled  a  huge  fist,  and  held  the  photograph 
high  that  the  others  might  see. 

Bill  came.  He  covered  the  intervening  space  at 
a  bound,  springing  swiftly  and  straight — as 
panthers  spring;  and  as  his  moccasined  feet 
touched  the  floor  he  struck.  Once,  twice,  thrice — 
and  all  so  quickly  that  the  onlookers  received  no 
sense  of  repeated  effort. 

The  terrimc  force  of  the  well-placed  blows,  and 
their  deadly  accuracy,  seemed  to  be  consecutive 
parts  of  a  single,  continuous,  smoothly  flowing 
movement. 

In  the  tense  silence  sounds  rang  sharp — the 
peculiar  smack  of  living  flesh  hard  hit,  as  the  first 
blow  landed  just  below  the  ear,  the  dull  thump  of 
a  heavy  body  blow,  and  the  clash  of  teeth  driven 
against  teeth  as  the  sagging  jaw  of  the  big  Swede 


132  The  Promise 

snapped  shut  to  the  impact  of  the  long  swing  that 
landed  full  on  his  chin's  point. 

The  huge  form  stiffened,  spun  half-way  around, 
and  toppled  sidewise  against  a  rack  of  drying 
garments,  which  fell  with  a  crash  to  the  floor. 

Without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  the  ludicrously 
sprawled  figure,  Bill  picked  up  his  mackinaw  and 
returned  the  envelope  to  the  pocket. 

"Irish,"  he  asked,  "where  is  the  van?  I  must 
get  some  blankets.  My  nurse,  there,  says  it's 
time  to  turn  in. " 

"Oi'll  go  wid  ye,"  said  Fallon,  and  a  roar  of 
laughter  followed  them  out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
"bird's-eye"  and  philosophy 

Bill  quickly  made  his  purchases,  and  shoulder- 
ing the  roll  of  blankets,  followed  Irish  to  the  head 
of  a  roll  way,  where  the  two  seated  themselves  on 
the  bunk  of  a  log  sled. 

"  Oi  don't  know  how  ye  done  ut, "  Fallon  began. 
"'Twas  th'  handiest  bit  av  two-fisted  wor-rk  Oi 
iver  see'd.  'Tis  well  ye've  had  ut  out  wid  Shtrom- 
berg.  Fer  all  his  crookedness,  he's  a  bether  man 
thin  th'  boss,  an'  he'll  not  be  layin'  that  lickin' 
up  ag'in  yez.  'Twas  a  foight  av  his  own  pickin', 
an'  he  knows  ye've  got  him  faded. 

"Aven  av  he  w'ud  of  befoor,  he'll  see  to  ut  that 
no  har-rm  comes  to  ye  now  t'rough  fault  av  his 
own,  fer  well  he  knows  the  men  'ud  think  'twas 
done  to  pay  ye  back,  an'  he'll  have  no  wish  to  play 
th'  title  role  at  a  hangin'. 

"From  now  on,  'tis  only  Moncrossen  ye'll  have 
to  watch,  fer  ye're  in  good  wid  th'  men.  Y/e  un- 
dershtand  ye  now.  Ye  see,  in  th'  woods  we  don't 
loike  myshtery  an',  whiles  we  most  av  us  know 
that  Moncrossen's  givin'  Appleton  th'  double  cross, 
'tis  none  av  our  business,  an'  phwin  we  thoucht 

i33 


134  The  Promise 

ye'd  come  into  th'  woods  undher  false  pretinces 
to  catch  um  at  ut,  they  was  more  or  less  talk. 

"Mesilf  was  beginnin'  to  think  ye'd  come  into 
th'  woods  fer  th'  list  cure,  ye  read  about  in  th' 
papers,  seem'  ye'd  loafed  about  fer  maybe  it's 
foive  hours  an'  done  nothin'  besides  carve  up  th' 
werwolf  an'  her  pack,  eye  down  th'  boss  in  his  own 
grub-shack,  an'  thin  top  off  th'  avenin'  be  knockin* 
th'  big  Swede  cold,  which  some  claims  he  c'ud 
put  th'  boss  himself  to  th'  brush,  wunst  he  got 
shtar-rted.  But  now  we  know  phy  ye're  here. 
We're  pr-roud  ye're  wan  av  us. " 

"What  do  you  mean — you  know  why  I  am 
here?  I  am  here  because  I  needed  a  job,  and 
Appleton  hired  me." 

"Sure,  lad.  But,  ye  mcind  th'  picture  in  yer 
pocket.     'Twas  a  woman. " 

"But " 

"  'Tis  none  av  our  business,  an'  'tis  nayther  here 
nor  there.  Av  there's  a  woman  at  th'  bottom 
av  ut,  'tis  rayson  enough — phwativer  happens." 

Bill  laughed. 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  about  the  bird's- 
eye,"  he  reminded. 

"Ut's  loike  this:  Here  an'  yon  in  th'  timber 
there's  a  bird's-eye  tree — bird's-eye  maple,  ye 
know.  'Tis  scarce  enough,  wid  only  a  tree  now 
an'  again,  an'  ut  takes  an  expert  to  spot  ut. 

"Well,  th'  bird's-eye  brings  around  a  hundred 
dollars  a  thousan',  an'  divil  a  bit  av  ut  gits  to 
Appleton's    mills. 


"Birds'-Eye"  and  Philosophy    135 

"  Moncrossen's  got  a  gang — Shtromberg's  in  ut, 
an'  a  Frinch  cruiser  named  Lebolt,  an'  a  boot- 
leggin'  tree-spotter  named  Creed,  that  lives  in 
Hilarity,  an'  a  couple  av  worthless  divils  av  saw- 
yers that's  too  lazy  fer  honest  wor-rk,  but  camps 
t'rough  th'  winter,  trappin'  an  sawin'  bird's-eye 
an  calico  ash  on  other  men's  land. 

11  Shtromberg'll  skid  till  along  toward  sphring 
phwin  he'll  go  to  teamin'.  Be  that  toime  th' 
bird's-eye  logs'll  be  down,  here  an'  there  in  th 
woods  beyant  th'  choppin's,  an'  Shtromberg'll 
haul  urn  an'  bank  um  on  some  river;  thin  in  th' 
summer,  Moncrossen  an'  his  men'll  slip  up,  toggle 
um  to  light  logs  so  they'll  float,  an'  raft  um  to 
th'  railroad*  ph were  there'll  be  a  buyer  from  th' 
Eastern  vaneer  mills  waitin'. 

"Ut's  a  crooked  game,  shtealin'  Appleton's 
logs,  an'  haulin'  um  wid  Appleton's  teams,  an' 
drawin'  Appleton's  wages  fer  doin'  ut. 

"Now,  bechune  man  an'  man,  th'  big  Swede's 
th'  brains  av  th'  gang.  He's  a  whole  lot  shmar- 
rter'n  phwat  he  lets  on.  Such  ain't  th'  nature  av 
men,  but  'tis  th'  way  av  women. " 

Irish  thoughtfully  tamped  his  pipe-bowl,  and 
the  flare  of  the  match  between  his  cupped  palms 
brought  out  his  honest  features  distinctly  in  the 
darkness.  Bill  felt  a  strong  liking  for  this  homely 
philosopher,  and  he  listened  as  the  other  eyed  him 
knowingly  and  continued : 

"Tis  be  experience  we  lear-rn.  An'  th'  sooner 
a  man  lear-rns,  th'  bether  ut  is  fer  um,  that  all 


136  The  Promise 

women  know  more  thin  they  let  on — an'  they've 
always  an  ace  fer  a  hole  car-rd  bekase  av  ut. 

"Fer  women  run  men,  an'  men  politics,  an' 
politics  armies,  an'  armies  th'  wor-rld — an'  at 
th'  bottom  av  ut  all  is  th'  wisdom  an'  schemin'  av 
women. 

"Phwin  a  man  fools  a  woman,  he's  a  fool — fer 
she  ain't  fooled  at  all.  But,  she  ain't  fool  enough 
to  let  on  she  ain't  fooled,  fer  well  she  knows  that 
as  long  as  she  knows  more  thin  he  thinks  she  knows, 
she  holds  th'  edge — an'  th'  divil  av  ut  is,  she  does. 

"Take  a  man,  now;  phwin  ye  know  um,  ye 
know  um.  He's  always  willin'  to  admit  he's  as 
shmar-rt  as  he  is,  or  a  damn  soight  shmar-rter, 
which  don't  fool  no  wan,  fer  'tis  phwat  they  expect. 

"A  man  c'n  brag  an'  lie  about  phwat  he  knows, 
an'  phwere  he's  been,  an'  phwat  he's  done;  an' 
noine  toimes  out  av  tin,  ye  cud  trust  him  to  th' 
inds  av  th'  earth  wid  ye're  lasht  dollar. 

"But  wanst  let  um  go  out  av  his  way  to  belittle 
himsilf  an'  phwat  he  knows,  an'  Oi  w'udn't  trust 
him  wid  a  bent  penny  as  far  as  Oi  cud  t'row  a  bull 
be  th'  tail — fer  'tis  done  wid  a  purpose.  'Tis  so 
wid  Shtromberg. " 

Fallon  arose,  consulted  his  watch,  and  led  the 
way  toward  the  bunk-house. 

"So  now  ye  know  fer  phwy  Moncrossen  hates 
ye,"  he  continued.  "He  knows  ye're  a  greener  in 
th'  woods,  but  he  knows  be  this  toime  ye'll  be  a 
har-rd  man  to  handle,  an'  he  fears  ye.  Oi've 
put  ye  wise  to  th'  bird's-eye  game  so  ye  c'n  steer 


"  Bird's-Eye  "  and  Philosophy     137 

clear  av  ut,  an'  not  be  gittin'  mixed  up  in  ut  wan 
way  or  another. " 

' '  I  am  much  obliged,  Fallon,  for  what  you  have 
told  me,"  replied  Bill  quietly;  "but  inasmuch  as 
I  am  working  for  Applet  on,  I  will  just  make  it  my 
business  to  look  after  his  interests  in  whatever  way 
possible.  I  guess  I  will  take  a  hand  in  the  bird's- 
eye  game  myself.  I  am  not  afraid  of  Moncrossen 
and  his  gang  of  thieves.  Anyway,  I  will  give 
them  a  run  for  their  money. " 

Fallon  shrugged. 

"D'ye  know,  Oi  thoucht  ye'd  say  that.  Well, 
'tis  ye're  own  funeral.  Tellin'  ye  about  me,  Oi 
ain't  lost  no  bird's-eye  trees,  mesilf,  but  av  ye 
need  help —  Be  th'  way,  th'  bunk  above  mine's 
empty;  ye  moight  t'row  ye're  blankets  in  there." 


CHAPTER  XIX 


A   FRAME-UP 


In  the  days  that  followed  Bill  threw  himself  into 
the  work  with  a  vigor  that  won  the  approval  of  the 
men.  A  "top"  lumber  crew  is  a  smooth-running 
machine  of  nice  balance  whose  working  units  are 
interdependent  one  upon  another  for  efficiency. 
One  shirking  or  inexperienced  man  may  appre- 
ciably curtail  the  output  of  an  entire  camp  and 
breed  discontent  and  dissatisfaction  among  the 
crew.  But  with  Bill  there  was  no  soldiering.  He 
performed  a  man's  work  from  the  start — awk- 
wardly at  first,  but,  with  the  mastery  of  detail 
acquired  under  the  able  tutelage  of  Stromberg,  he 
became  known  as  the  best  swamper  on  the  job. 

Between  him  and  the  big  Swede  existed  a  con- 
dition of  armed  neutrality.  Neither  ever  referred 
to  the  incident  of  the  bunk-house,  nor  did  either 
show  hint  of  ill-feeling  toward  the  other.  The 
efficiency  of  each  depended  upon  the  efforts  of  the 
other,  and  neither  found  cause  for  complaint. 

With  the  crew  working  to  capacity  to  supply 
Appleton's  demand  for  ten  million  feet  of  logs, 

138 


A  Frame-Up  139 

there  was  little  time  for  recreation.  Nevertheless, 
Bill  bought  a  pair  of  snowshoes  from  a  passing 
Indian  and,  in  spite  of  rough  weather  and  aching 
muscles,  utilized  stormy  days  and  moonlight  nights 
in  perfecting  himself  in  their  use. 

He  and  Fallon  had  become  great  chums  and 
contrary  to  the  Irishman's  prediction,  instead  of 
hectoring  the  new  man,  Moncrossen  left  him 
severely  alone. 

And  so  the  routine  of  the  camp  went  on  until 
well  into  February.  The  clearing  widened,  the 
timber  line  receded,  and  tier  upon  tier  of  logs  was 
pyramided  upon  the  railways.  As  yet  Bill  had 
made  no  progress — formulated  no  definite  plan  for 
the  detection  and  ultimate  exposure  of  the  gang 
of  bird's-eye  thieves. 

Occasionally  men  put  up  at  the  camp  for  a  short 
stay.  Creed  and  Lebolt  were  the  most  frequent 
visitors,  but  neither  gave  evidence  of  being  other 
than  he  appeared  to  be — Creed  a  hunter  seeking 
to  dispose  of  venison  taken  out  of  season,  and 
Lebolt  a  company  cruiser  engaged  in  estimating 
timber  to  the  northward. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Bad  Luck,  that  gaunt 
specter  that  lurks  unseen  in  the  shadows  and 
hovers  over  the  little  lives  of  men  for  the  working 
of  harm,  swooped  down  upon  the  camp  and  in  a 
series  of  untoward  happenings  impaired  its  effic- 
iency and  impregnated  the  atmosphere  with  the 
blight  of  discontent. 

An  unprecedented  thaw  set  in,  ruining  the  skid- 


140  The  Promise 

ways  and  reducing  the  snow  of  the  forest  to  a 
sodden  slush  that  chilled  men  to  the  bone  as  they 
floundered  heavily  about  their  work. 

Reed  and  Kantochy,  two  sawyers,  were  caught 
by  a  "kick-back."  One  of  the  best  horses  was 
sweenied.  A  teamster  who  fell  asleep  on  the  top 
of  his  load  awoke  in  the  bottom  of  a  ravine  with 
a  shattered  arm,  a  dead  horse,  and  a  ruined  log- 
sled.  Bill's  foot  was  mashed  by  a  rolling  log ;  and 
last,  and  most  far-reaching  in  its  effect,  the  cook 
contracted  spotted  fever  and  died  in  a  reverse  curve. 

Moncrossen  raged.  From  a  steady  eighty 
thousand  feet  a  day  the  output  dropped  to  seventy, 
sixty,  fifty  thousand — and  the  end  was  not  in 
sight.  Good-natured  banter  and  friendly  tussles 
among  the  men  gave  place  to  surly  bickering  and 
ugly  fist-fighting,  and  in  spite  of  the  best  efforts 
of  the  second  cook  the  crew  growled  sullenly  or 
openly  cursed  the  grub. 

Then  it  was  that  Moncrossen  knew  that  some- 
thing must  be  done — and  that  something  quickly. 
He  shifted  Stromberg  and  Fallon  to  the  sawing 
crew,  made  a  skidder  out  of  a  swamper,  and  filled 
his  place  with  a  grub-shack  flunky. 

Then  one  afternoon  he  dropped  in  upon  Bill  in 
the  bunk-house,  where  that  young  man  sat  fum- 
ing at  his  inaction  with  his  foot  propped  up  on  the 
edge  of  a  bunk. 

"How's  the  foot?"  growled  the  boss. 

"Pretty  sore,"  answered  Bill,  laying  aside  a 
magazine.     "Swelling  is  going  down  a  bit." 


A  Frame-Up  141 

"Ever  handle  horses?" 

"Yes,  a  few." 

The  boss  cleared  his  throat  and  proceeded 
awkwardly. 

"I  don't  like  to  ask  no  crippled  man  to  work 
before  he's  able,"  he  began  grudgingly.  "But 
things  is  goin'  bad.  What  with  them  two  pilgrims 
that  called  theirselves  sawyers  not  bein'  able  to 
dodge  a  kick-back,  an'  Gibson  pickin'  a  down-hill 
pull  on  an  iced  skidway  for  to  go  to  sleep  on  his 
load,  an'  your  gettin'  pinched,  an'  the  cook 
curlin'  up  an'  dyin'  on  us,  an'  the  whole  damned 
outfit  roarin'  about  the  grub,  there's  hell  to  pay 
all  around." 

He  paused  and,  receiving  no  answer,  shot  a 
crafty  look  at  the  man  before  him. 
•  "Now,  if  you  was  able,"  he  went  on,  "you  c'd 
take  the  tote-sled  down  to  Hilarity  an'  fetch  us  a 
cook.  It  seems  like  that's  the  onliest  way;  there 
ain't  nary  'nother  man  I  c'n  spare — an'  he's  a  good 
cook,  old  Daddy  Dunnigan  is,  if  he'll  come.  He's 
a  independent  old  cuss — work  if  he  damn  good  an' 
feels  like  it,  an'  if  he  don't  he  won't. 

"If  you  think  you  c'n  tackle  it,  I'll  have  the 
blacksmith  whittle  you  out  a  crutch,  an'  you  c'n 
take  that  long-geared  tote  team  an'  make  Hilarity 
in  two  days.  They's  double  time  in  it  for  you," 
he  added,  as  a  matter  of  special  inducement. 

Bill  did  not  hesitate  over  his  decision. 

"All  right;  I  think  I  can  manage,"  he  said. 
"When  do  I  start?" 


142  The  Promise 

"The  team'll  be  ready  early  in  the  mornin'. 
If  you  start  about  four  o'clock  you  c'n  make  Mel- 
ton's old  No.  8  Camp  by  night  without  crowdin* 
'em  too  hard.  It's  the  first  one  of  them  old  camps 
you  strike,  and  you  c'n  stable  the  horses  without 
unharnessin' ;  just  slip  off  the  bridles  an'  feed  'em. " 

Bill  nodded.  At  the  door  Moncrossen  halted 
and  glanced  at  him  peculiarly. 

"I'm  obliged  to  you, "  he  said.  "For  a  greener, 
you've  made  a  good  hand.  I'll  have  things  got 
ready." 

Bill  was  surprised  that  the  boss  had  paid  him 
even  this  grudging  compliment,  and  as  he  sat  beside 
the  big  stove,  puzzled  over  the  peculiar  glance  that 
had  accompanied  it. 

In  a  few  minutes,  however,  he  dismissed  the 
matter  and  turned  again  to  his  six-months-old 
magazine.  Could  he  have  followed  Moncrossen 
and  overheard  the  hurried  conversation  which  took 
place  in  the  little  office,  he  would  have  found 
food  for  further  reflection,  but  of  this  he  remained 
in  ignorance;  and,  all  unknown  to  him,  a  man 
left  the  office,  slipped  swiftly  and  noiselessly  into 
the  forest,  and  headed  southward. 

"'Tis  a  foine  va-acation  ye're  havin'  playin' 
nurse  fer  a  pinched  toe,  an'  me  tearin'  out  th'  bone 
fer  to  git  out  th'  logs  on  salt-horse  an'  dough-gods 
't  w'd  sink  a  battle-ship.  'Tis  a  lucky  divil  ye 
ar-re  altogither,"  railed  Fallon  good-naturedly  as 
he  returned  from  supper  and  found  Bill  engaged  in 
the  task  of  swashing  arnica  on  his  bruised  foot. 


A  Frame-Up  143 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'll  be  back  in  the  game 
to-morrow. " 

"To-morry!"  exclaimed  Irish/ eying  the  swollen 
and  discolored  member  with  a  grin.  "Yis;  ut'll 
be  to-morry,  all  right.  But  'tis  a  shame  to 
waste  so  much  toime.  Av  ye  c'd  git  th'  boss  to  put 
ye  on  noight  shift  icin'  th'  skidways,  ye  wudn't 
have  to  wait  so  long. " 

"It's  a  fact,  Irish,"  laughed  Bill.  "I  go  on  at 
4  A.M.  to-morrow." 

"Fure  a.m.,  is  ut?  An'  phwat'll  ye  be  doin'? 
Peelin'  praties  fer  that  dommed  pisener  in  th' 
kitchen.  Ye've  only  been  laid  up  free  days  an' 
talk  av  goin'  to  wor-rk.  Man !  Av  Oi  was  lucky 
enough  to  git  squose  loike  that,  Oi'd  make  ut  lasht 
a  month  av  Oi  had  to  pour  ink  on  me  foot  to  kape 
up  th'  color. " 

"I'm  going  to  Hilarity  for  a  cook, "  insisted  Bill. 
"  Moncrossen  says  there  is  a  real  one  down  there — 
Daddy  Dunnigan,  he  called  him." 

"Sure,  Dunnigan'll  not  come  into  th'  woods. 
An'  phy  shud  he?  Wid  money  in  th'  bank,  an' 
her  majesty's — Oi  mane,  his  nibs's  pension  comin' 
in  ivery  month,  an'  his  insides  broke  in  to  Hod 
Burrage's  whisky — phwat  more  c'd  a  man  want?" 

"The  boss  thinks  maybe  he'll  come.  Anyway, 
I  am  going  after  him." 

"Ye  shud  av  towld  urn  to  go  to  hell !  Wor-rkin' 
a  man  wid  a  foot  loike  that  is  croolty  to  animals; 
av  ye  was  a  harse  he'd  be  arrested." 

"He  didn't  tell  me  to  go.     He  is  crowded  for 


144  The  Promise 

men;  the  grub  is  rotten;  something  has  to  be  done; 
and  he  asked  me  if  I  thought  I  could  make  it. " 

Irish  pulled  thoughtfully  at  his  pipe,  and 
slowly  his  brows  drew  together  in  a  frown. 

"He  said  ye  c'd  make  ut  in  two  days?"  he 
inquired. 

"Yes.  The  tote-road  is  well  broken,  and  forty 
miles  traveling  light  with  that  rangy  team  is  not 
such  an  awful  pull." 

"An'  he  towld  ye  phwere  to  camp.  It'll  be 
Melton's  awld  No.  8,  where  ye  camped  comin'  in?" 

"Yes." 

Fallon  nodded  thoughtfully,  and  Fill  wondered 
what  was  passing  in  his  mind.  For  a  long  time  he 
was  silent,  and  the  injured  man  responded  to  the 
hearty  greetings  and  inquiries  of  the  men  returning 
from  the  grub-shack. 

When  these  later  had  disposed  themselves  for  the 
evening,  the  Irishman  hunched  his  chair  closer  to 
the  bunk  upon  which  Bill  was  sitting. 

"iVt  Melton's  No.  8,  Oi  moind,  th'  shtables  is  a 
good  bit  av  a  way  from  th'  rist  av  th'  buildin's,  an' 
hid  from  soight  be  a  knowl  av  ground. " 

"I  don't  remember  the  stables,  but  they  can't 
be  very  far;  they  are  in  the  clearing,  and  Mon- 
crossen  had  the  blacksmith  make  me  a  crutch. " 

"A  crutch,  is  ut?  A  crutch!  Well,  a  man  ud 
play  hell  makin'  foorty  moiles  on  a  crutch  in 
th'  winter — no  mather  how  good  th'  thrail  was 
broke." 

"Forty    miles!     Look    here,    Irish — what    are 


A  Frame-Up  H5 

you  talking  about?  I  thought  your  bottle  had 
been  empty  for  a  week. " 

"Impty  ut  is — which  me  head  ain't.  Listen: 
S'posin' — just  s'posin',  moind  yez  Oi'm  sayin' — a 
man  wid  a  bum  leg  was  camped  in  th'  shack  av 
Melton's  No.  8,  an'  th'  harses  in  th'  shtable.  An' 
s'posin'  some  one  shnaked  in  in  th'  noight  an* 
stole  th'  harses  on  um  an'  druv  'em  to  Hilarity, 
an'  waited  f'r  th'  boss  to  sind  f 'r  'em.  An'  s'posin* 
a  wake  wint  by  befoor  th'  boss  c'd  sind  a  man  down 
to  look  up  th'  team  he'd  sint  f'r  a  cook,  wid  orders 
to  hurry  back.  An'  s'posin'  he  found  th'  bum- 
legged  driver  froze  shtiff  on  th'  tote-road  phwere 
he'd  made  out  to  hobble  a  few  moiles  on  his  crutch 
— phwat  thin?  Why,  th'  man  was  a  greener,  an', 
not  knowin'  how  to  handle  th'  team,  they'd  got 
away  from  um. " 

Bill  followed  the  Irishman  closely,  and  knew  that 
he  spoke  with  a  purpose.  His  eyes  narrowed,  and 
his  lips  bent  into  that  cold  smile  which  the  men  of 
the  camp  had  come  to  know  was  no  smile  at  all,  but 
a  battle  alarm,  the  more  ominous  for  its  silence. 

' '  Do  you  mean  that  it  is  a  frame-up  ?  That  Mon- 
crossen — "     Fallon  silenced  him  with  a  motion. 

"Whist!"  he  whispered  and  glanced  sharply 
about  him,  then  leaned  over  and  dug  a  stiffened 
forefinger  into  the  other's  ribs.  "Oi  don't  mane 
nothin'.  But  'tis  about  toime  they  begun  bankin' 
their  bird's-eye. 

"Creed  et  dinner  in  camp,  but  he  never  et 
supper.     Him  an'  th'  boss  made  medicine  in  th' 


10 


146  The  Promise 

office  afther  th'  boss  talked  to  ye.  Put  two  an*' 
two  togither  an'  Oi've  towld  ye  nothin'  at  all; 
but  av  ye  fergit  ut  Oi'll  see  that  phwat  th'  wolves 
lave  av  th'  bum-legged  teamster  is  buried  proper 
an'  buried  deep,  an'  Oi'll  blow  in  tin  dollars  f'r  a 
mass  f'r  his  sowl. 

"Av  ye  don't  fergit  ut,  ye  moight  fetch  back  a^ 
gallon  jug  av  Hod  Burrage's  embalmin'  flooid,  f'r 
me  inwards  is  that  petrified  be  th'  grub  we've  been 
havin'  av  late,  they  moight  mishtake  ut  f'r  rale 
liquor.  Good-by,  an'  good  luck' — 'tis  toime  to  roll 
in." 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  FIRE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

The  sledding  was  good  on  the  tote-road. 

The  thaw  that  ruined  the  iced  surface  of  the  skid- 
ways  was  followed  by  several  days  of  freezing 
weather  that  put  a  hard,  smooth  finish  on  the  deep 
snow  of  the  longer  road,  over  which  the  runners 
of  the  box-bodied  tote-sled  slipped  with  scarcely 
any  resistance  to  the  pull  of  the  sharp-shod  team. 

Bill  Carmody,  snugly  bundled  in  robes  in  the 
bottom  of  the  sled,  idly  watched  the  panorama  of 
tree-trunks  between  which  the  road  twisted  in  an 
endless  succession  of  tortuous  windings. 

It  was  not  yet  daylight  when  he  rounded  the 
bend  which  was  the  scene  of  his  fight  with  the 
werwolf. 

But  by  the  thin,  cold  starlight  and  the  pale 
luminosity  of  the  fading  aurora,  he  recognized  each 
surrounding  detail,  and  wondered  at  the  accuracy 
with  which  the  trivialities  of  the  setting  had  been 
subconsciously  impressed  upon  his  memory. 

It  was  here  he  had  first  met  Fallon,  and  he 
remembered  the  undisguised  approval  in  the  Irish- 
man's voice  and  the  firm  grip  of  the  hand  that 

U7 


148  The  Promise 

welcomed  him  into  the  comradery  of  the  North- 
men as  he  stood,  faint  from  hunger  and  weary 
from  exertion,  staring  dully  down  at  the  misshapen 
carcass  of  Diablesse. 

"Good  old  Irish,"  he  muttered,  and  smiled  as 
he  thought  of  himself,  Bill  Carmody,  proud  of  the 
friendship  of  a  lumberjack. 

He  had  come  to  know  that  in  the  ceaseless  whir] 
of  society  the  heavier  timbers' — the  real  men  are 
thrown  outward — forced  to  the  very  edges  of  the 
bowl,  where  they  toil  among  big  things  upon  the 
outskirts  of  civilization. 

He  pulled  off  his  heavy  mitten  and  fumbled  for 
his  pipe.  In  the  side-pocket  of  his  mackinaw  his 
hand  encountered  an  object — hard  and  cold  and 
unfamiliar  to  his  touch. 

He  withdrew  it  and  looked  at  the  wicked,  blue- 
black  outlines  of  an  automatic  pistol.  Idly  he 
examined  the  clip,  crowded  with  shiny,  yellow 
cartridges.  He  recognized  the  gun  as  Fallon's,  and 
smiled  as  he  returned  it  to  his  pocket. 

"Only  in  case  of  a  pinch,"  he  grinned,  and 
glanced  approvingly  at  the  fist  that  doubled  hard 
to  the  strong  clinch  of  his  fingers. 

Hour  after  hour  he  slipped  smoothly  southward, 
relieving  the  monotony  of  the  journey  by  formu- 
lating his  plan  of  action  in  case  the  forebodings  of 
Fallon  should  be  realized. 

Personally  he  apprehended  no  trouble,  but  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  trouble  coming  should  not 
find  him  unprepared. 


A  Fire  in  the  Night  149 

When  at  last  the  team  swung  into  the  clearing 
of  Melton's  old  No.  8,  the  stars  winked  in  cold 
brilliance  above  the  surrounding  pines,  and  the 
deserted  buildings  stood  lifeless  and  dim  in  the 
deepening  gloom. 

Bill  headed  the  horses  for  the  stable  which  he 
found,  as  Irish  had  told  him,  located  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  other  buildings  and  cut  off  from 
sight  by  a  knoll  and  a  heavy  tangle  of  scrub  that 
had  sprung  up  in  the  clearing. 

He  climbed  stiffly  and  painfully  from  the  sled- 
box,  and  with  the  aid  of  his  crutch,  hobbled  about 
the  task  of  unhitching  the  horses.  He  watered 
them  where  a  plume  of  thin  vapor  disclosed  the 
whereabouts  of  a  never-freezing  spring  which 
burbled  softly  between  its  low,  ice-encrusted 
banks. 

It  proved  a  difficult  matter,  crippled  as  he  was, 
to  handle  the  horses,  but  at  length  he  got  them 
into  the  stable,  chinked  the  broken  feed-boxes  as 
best  he  could,  and  removed  the  bridles,  hanging 
them  upon  the  hames. 

He  closed  the  door  and,  securing  his  lantern, 
blankets,  and  lunch-basket,  made  his  way  toward 
the  old  shack  where  he  had  spent  his  first  night  in 
the  timber  land. 

The  sagging  door  swung  half  open,  and  upon 
the  rough  floor  the  snow-water  from  the  recent 
thaw  had  collected  in  puddles  and  frozen,  render- 
ing the  footing  precarious. 

Bill    noted  with   satisfaction    that    there   still 


150  The  Promise 

remained  a  goodly  portion  of  the  firewood  which  he 
had  cut  and  carried  in  upon  his  previous  visit,  and 
he  soon  had  a  fire  roaring  in  the  rusty  stove. 

He  was  in  no  hurry.  He  knew  that  any  attempt 
to  make  away  with  the  team  would  be  delayed 
until  the  thief  believed  him  to  be  asleep,  and  his 
plans  were  laid  to  the  minutest  detail. 

Setting  the  lantern  upon  the  table,  he  proceeded 
to  eat  his  lunch,  after  which  he  lighted  his  pipe, 
and  for  an  hour  smoked  at  the  fireside.  In  spite 
of  the  pain  of  his  injured  foot  his  mind  wandered 
back  to  the  events  of  his  first  visit  to  the  shack. 

There,  in  the  black  shadow  of  the  pile  of  fire- 
wood, lay  the  empty  whisky  bottle  where  the 
Indian  had  tossed  it  after  drinking  the  last  drop 
of  its  contents. 

Carmody  stared  a  long  time  at  this  silent  re- 
minder of  his  first  serious  brush  with  King  Alcohol, 
then,  from  the  inner  pocket  of  his  mackinaw,  he 
drew  the  sealed  packet  and  gazed  for  many  minutes 
at  the  likeness  of  the  girl — dimming  now  from  the 
rub  of  the  coarse  cloth  of  the  pocket. 

Suddenly  a  great  longing  came  over  him— a 
longing  to  see  this  girl,  to  hear  the  soft  accents  of 
her  voice  and,  above  all,  to  tell  her  of  his  great  love 
for  her,  that  in  all  the  world  there  was  no  woman 
but  her,  and  that  each  day,  and  a  hundred  times 
each  day,  her  dear  face  was  before  his  eyes,  and 
in  his  ears,  ringing  above  the  mighty  sounds  of  a 
falling  forest,  was  the  soft,  sweet  sound  of  her 
voice. 


A  Fire  in  the  Night  151 

He  could  not  speak  to  her,  but  she  could  speak 
to  him,  even  if  it  were  but  a  repetition  of  the  words 
of  the  letters  he  already  knew  by  heart,  but  which 
had  remained  sealed  in  the  envelope  ever  since  the 
day  he  bid  farewell  to  Broadway — and  to  her. 

His  fingers  fumbled  at  the  flap  of  the  heavy 
envelope.  He  could  at  least  feast  his  eyes  upon  the 
lines  traced  by  her  pen  and  press  his  lips  to  the 
page  where  her  little  hand  had  rested. 

His  foot  throbbed  with  dull  persistence.  He 
was  conscious  of  being  tired,  but  he  must  not  sleep 
this  night.  Rough  work  possibly,  at  any  rate,  a 
man's  work,  awaited  him  there  in  the  gloom  of  the 
silent  clearing. 

Again  his  eye  sought  the  whisky  bottle  and  held. 
His  fingers  ceased  to  toy  with  the  flap,  for  in  that 
moment  the  thought  came  to  him  that  had  the 
bottle  not  been  empty,  had  it  been  filled  with 
liquor — strong  liquor — with  the  pain  in  his  foot 
and  the  stiffness  of  his  tired  muscles  and  the  work 
ahead — well,  he  might— for  the  old  desire  was 
strong  upon  him — he  might  take  a  drink. 

"Not  yet,"  he  muttered,  and  returned  the 
packet  to  his  pocket  unopened.  "I  told  her  I 
would  beat  the  game.  I've  bucked  old  John 
Barleycorn's  line  and  scored  a  touchdown;  the 
hardest  of  the  fighting  is  past,  but  there  is  just  a 
chance  that  I  might  miss  goal. " 

Bill  looked  at  his  watch;  it  was  eight  o'clock. 
He  stood  up,  wincing  as  his  injured  foot  touched 
the  floor,  and  hobbled  across  the  room  where  he 


152  The  Promise 

wrenched  a  rough,  split  shelf  from  the  wall.  This, 
together  with  some  sticks  of  firewood,  he  rolled 
in  a  blanket,  placing  it  near  the  stove.  He  added 
more  wood  until  the  bundle  was  about  the  size 
and  shape  of  a  man,  and  covered  it  with  his  other 
two  blankets.  Filling  the  broken  stove  with  wood 
he  blew  out  the  lantern  and  limped  silently  out 
into  the  night. 

Two  hours  later  Creed,  bird's-eye  spotter  and 
bad  man  of  the  worn-out  little  town  of  Hilarity, 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  held  a  glowing 
brand  to  the  dial  of  his  watch. 

"The  greener  should  be  asleep  by  now,"  he 
muttered,  and,  rolling  his  blanket,  kicked  snow 
over  the  remnant  of  his  camp-fire,  picked  up  his 
rifle,  and  ascended  the  steep  side  of  a  deep  ravine 
lying  some  two  hundred  yards  to  the  westward  of 
the  clearing  where  Bill  Carmody  had  encamped  for 
the  night. 

After  leaving  Moncrossen's  office  on  the  pre- 
vious afternoon  he  had  traveled  all  night,  and 
reached  Melton's  old  No.  8  in  the  early  morning. 

All  day  he  had  slept  by  the  side  of  his  fire  in 
the  bottom  of  the  ravine,  and  in  the  evening  had 
lain  in  the  cover  of  the  scrub  and  watched  the 
greener  stable  the  horses  and  limp  to  the  de- 
serted shack. 

At  heart  Creed  was  a  craven,  a  bullying  swash- 
buckler, who  bragged  and  blustered  among  the 
rheumy-eyed  down-and-outers  who  nightly  fore- 
gathered   about   Burrage's    stove,  but   who   was 


A  Fire  in  the  Night  153 

servile  and  cringing  as  a  starved  puppy  toward 
Moncrossen  and  Stromberg,  who  openly  despised 
him. 

They  made  good  use  of  his  ability  to  "spot"  a 
bird's-eye  tree  as  far  as  he  could  see  one,  however, 
an  ability  shared  by  few  woodsmen,  and  which  in 
Creed  amounted  almost  to  genius. 

The  man  had  never  been  known  to  turn  his  hand 
to  honest  work,  but  as  a  timber  pirate  and  peddler 
of  rotgut  whisky  among  the  Indians,  he  had  arisen 
to  comparative  affluence. 

His  hate  for  the  greener  was  abysmal  and  unrea- 
soning, and  had  been  carefully  fostered  by  Mon- 
crossen who,  instinctively  fearing  that  the  new 
man  would  eventually  expose  his  nefarious  double- 
dealing  with  his  employer,  realized  that  at  the 
proper  time  Creed  could  be  induced  to  do  away 
with  the  greener  under  circumstances  that  would 
leave  him,  Moncrossen,  free  from  suspicion. 

In  the  framing  of  Bill  Carmody,  Stromberg  had 
no  part.  Moncrossen  could  not  fathom  the  big 
Swede,  upon  whose  judgment  and  acumen  he  had 
come  to  rely  in  the  matter  of  handling  and  dispos- 
ing of  the  stolen  timber. 

Several  times  during  the  winter  he  had  ten- 
tatively broached  plans  and  insinuated  means 
whereby  the  Swede  could  "accidentally"  remove 
his  swamper  from  their  path. 

The  reversing  of  a  hook  which  would  cause  a  log 
to  roll  just  at  the  right  time  on  a  hillside ;  the  filing 
of  a  link;  the  snapping  of  a  weakened  bunk-pin, 


154  The  Promise 

any  one  of  these  common  accidents  would  render 
them  safe  from  possible  interference. 

But  to  all  these  suggestions  Stromberg  turned 
a  deaf  ear.  The  boss  even  taunted  him  with  the 
knock-out  he  had  received  at  the  hands  of  the 
greener. 

"That's  all  right,  Moncrossen, "  he  replied; 
"I  picked  the  fight  purpose  to  beat  him  up.  It 
didn't  work.  He's  a  better  man  than  me — or  you 
either — an'  you  know  it.  Only  he  had  to  lick 
me  to  prove  it.  He  chilled  your  heart  with  a 
look  an'  a  grin — an'  the  whole  crew  lookin'  on. 

"But  beatin'  up  a  man  is  one  thing  an'  murder 
is  another.  Appleton's  rich,  besides  he's  a  soft- 
wood man  an'  ain't  fixed  for  handlin'  veneer,  so 
I  might's  well  get  in  on  the  bird's-eye  as  let  you 
an'  Creed  an'  Lebolt  steal  it  all.  But  I  ain't  got 
to  the  point  where  I'd  murder  a  good  man  to 
cover  up  my  dirty  tracks — an'  I  never  will!" 

And  so,  without  consulting  Stromberg,  Moncros- 
sen bided  his  time  and  laid  his  plans.  And  now 
the  time  had  come.  The  plan  had  been  gone  over 
in  detail  in  the  little  office,  and  Creed  in  the  edge 
of  the  timber  stood  ready  to  carry  it  out. 

Stealthily  he  slipped  into  the  dense  shadows  of 
the  scrub  and  made  his  way  toward  the  shack 
where  a  thin  banner  of  smoke,  shot  with  an 
occasional  yellow  spark,  floated  from  the  di- 
lapidated stovepipe  that  protruded  from  the 
roof. 

The  hard  crust   rendered  snowshoes  unneces- 


A  Fire  in  the  Night  155 

eary,  and  his  soft  moccasins  made  no  sound  upon 
the  surface  of  the  snow. 

Gaining  the  side  of  the  shack,  he  peered  between 
the  unchinked  logs.  The  play  of  the  firelight  that 
shone  through  the  holes  of  the  broken  stove  sent 
flickering  shadows  dancing  over  the  floor  and  walls 
of  the  rough  interior. 

Near  the  fire,  stretched  long  and  silent  beneath 
its  blankets,  lay  the  form  of  a  man.  Creed  shifted 
his  position  for  a  better  view  of  the  sleeper.  His 
foot  caught  in  the  loop  of  a  piece  of  discarded  wire 
whose  ends  were  firmly  frozen  into  the  snow,  and 
he  crashed  heavily  backward  into  a  pile  of  dry 
brushwood. 

It  seemed  to  the  frightened  man  as  if  the  accom- 
panying noise  must  wake  the  dead.  He  lay  for  a 
moment  where  he  had  fallen,  listening  for  sounds 
from  within.  He  clutched  his  rifle  nervously,  but 
the  deathlike  silence  was  unbroken  save  for  his  own 
heavy  breathing  and  the  tiny  snapping  of  the  fire 
in  the  stove. 

Cautiously  he  extricated  himself  from  the  brush- 
heap,  his  heart  pounding  wildly  at  the  snapping  of 
each  dry  twig.  It  was  incredible  that  the  man 
could  sleep  through  such  a  racket  in  a  country 
where  life  and  death  may  hang  upon  the  rustle 
of  a  leaf. 

But  the  silence  remained  unbroken,  and,  after 
what  seemed  to  the  cowering  man  an  eternity  of 
expectant  waiting,  he  crawled  again  to  the  wall 
and  glanced  furtively  into  the  interior.     The  form 


156  The  Promise 

by  the  fire  was  motionless  as  before — it  had  not 
stirred. 

Then,  as  he  looked,  a  ray  of  firelight  fell  upon  the 
white  label  of  the  black  whisky  bottle  that  lay  an 
easy  arm's  reach  from  the  head  of  the  sleeper.  A 
smile  of  comprehension  twisted  the  lips  of  his  evil 
face  as  he  leered  through  the  crevice  at  the  helpless 
form  by  the  fireside. 

"Soused  to  the  guards,"  he  sneered,  "an'  me 
with  ten  years  scairt  offen  my  life  fer  fear  I'd 
wake  him. "  He  stood  erect  and,  with  no  attempt 
at  the  stealth  with  which  he  had  approached  the 
shack,  proceeded  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the 
stable. 

It  was  but  the  work  of  a  few  moment  to  bridle 
the  horses,  lead  them  out,  and  hitch  them  to  the 
sled. 

Tossing  the  horse-blankets  on  top  of  the  big 
tarpaulin  which  lay  in  the  rear  of  the  sled-box 
ready  for  use  in  the  covering  of  supplies,  he  settled 
himself  in  front  and  pulled  the  robes  about  him. 

He  turned  the  team  slowly  onto  the  tote-road 
and  glanced  again  toward  the  shack.  A  spark, 
larger  than  the  others,  shot  out  of  the  stovepipe  and 
lodged  upon  the  bark  roof,  where  it  glowed  for  a 
moment  before  going  out.  The  man  watched  it 
in  sudden  fascination. 

He  halted  the  team  and  stared  long  at  the  spot 
where  the  spark  had  vanished  in  blackness,  but 
which  in  the  brain  of  the  man  appeared  as  an  ever- 
widening  circle  of  red,  which  spread  until  it  in- 


A  Fire  in  the  Ni^ht  157 


t> 


eluded  the  whole  roof  in  its  fiery  embrace,  and 
crept  slowly  down  the  log  walls. 

So  realistic  was  the  picture  that  he  seemed  to 
hear  the  crackle  and  roar  of  the  leaping  flames. 
He  drew  a  trembling  hand  across  his  eyes,  and 
when  he  looked  again  the  shack  stood  silent  and 
black  in  the  half-light  of  the  starlit  clearing. 

"God!"  he  mumbled  aloud.  "If  it  had  only 
happened  thataway— "  He  passed  his  tongue 
over  his  dry,  thick  lips.  "Why  not?"  he  argued 
querulously.  "Moncrossen  said  'twa'nt  safe  to 
bushwhack  him  like  I  wanted  to — said  how  I  ain't 
got  nerve  nor  brains  to  stand  no  investigation. 

"But  if  he'd  git  burnt  up  in  the  shack,  that's 
safer  yet.  He  got  that  booze  somewhere — some 
one  knows  he  had  it.  He  got  spiflicated,  built  a 
roarin'  fire  in  the  old  stoves — an'  there  y'are,  plain 
as  daylight.  No  brains!  I'll  show  him  who's 
got  brains — an'  there  won't  be  no  investigation, 
neither." 

He  drew  the  team  to  the  side  of  the  tote-road 
and,  slipping  the  halters  over  the  bridles,  tied  them 
to  a  stout  sapling  and  made  his  way  toward  the 
shack. 

One  look  satisfied  him  that  the  sleeper  had  not 
stirred,  and  noiselessly  he  slipped  the  heavy  hasp 
of  the  door  over  the  staple  and  secured  it  with  the 
wooden  pin. 

He  collected  dry  branches,  piling  them  directly 
beneath  the  small,  square  window  which  yawned 
high  in  the  wall.     Higher  and  higher  the  pile 


158  The  Promise 

grew  until  its  top  was  almost  on  a  level  with  the 
sill. 

His  hands  trembled  as  he  applied  the  match. 
Tiny  tongues  of  flame  struggled  upward  through 
the  branches,  lengthening  and  widening  as  fresh 
twigs  ignited,  and  in  his  ears  the  crackle  and 
snap  of  the  dry  wood  sounded  as  the  rattle  of 
musketry. 

His  first  impulse  as  the  flames  gained  headway 
was  to  fly — to  place  distance  between  himself  and 
the  scene  of  his  crime.  But  he  dared  not  go.  His 
knees  shook,  and  he  stared  with  blanched  face  in 
horrid  fascination  as  the  flames  roared  and  crackled 
through  the  brushwood. 

They  were  curling  about  the  window  now,  and 
the  whole  clearing  was  light  as  day.  He  slunk 
around  the  corner  and  gained  the  shadow  of  the 
opposite  wall.  Fearfully  he  applied  his  eye  to  a 
crevice — the  form  by  the  stove  had  not  moved. 

The  air  of  the  interior  was  heavy  with  smoke 
and  tiny  flames  were  eating  their  way  between  the 
logs.  The  smoke  thickened,  blurring  and  blotting 
out  the  prostrate  figure.  He  glanced  across  at  the 
window.  Its  aperture  was  a  solid  sheet  of  flame — 
he  was  safe! 

With  a  low,  animal-like  cry  Creed  sprang 
away  and  dashed  in  the  direction  of  the  team. 
With  shaking  fingers  he  clawed  at  the  knots  and 
slipped  the  halters. 

Leaping  into  the  sled,  he  grabbed  up  the  lines 
and  headed  the  horses  southward  at  a  run.     Be- 


A  Fire  in  the  Night  159 

hind  him  the  sky  reddened  as  the  flames  licked 
hungrily  at  the  dry  logs  of  the  shack. 

"It's  his  own  fault!  It's  his  own  fault!"  he 
mumbled  over  and  over  again.  "  Serves  him  right 
fer  gittin'  soused  an'  buildin'  up  a  big  fire  in  a 
busted  stove.  'Twasn't  no  fault  of  his  that  spark 
didn't  catch  the  roof.  Serves  him  right!  Maybe 
it  did  catch — maybe  it  did.  'Taint  my  fault  no- 
how— it  must  'a'  caught — I  seen  it  thataway  so 
plain!  Oh,  my  God!  Oh,  my  God,"  he  babbled, 
"if  they  git  to  askin'  me! 

"It  was  thisaway,  mister;  yes,  sir;  listen:  I 
was  camped  in  the  ravine,  an'  all  to  wunst  I  seen 
the  flare  of  the  fire  an'  I  run  over  there;  but  'twas 
too  late — the  roof  had  fell  in  an'  the  pore  feller 
must  'a'  been  cooked  alive.  It  was  tumble, 
mister — tumble ! 

"An'  I  run  an'  hitched  up  the  team  an'  druv  to 
Hilarity  hell  bent  fer  a  potlatch — that's  the  way  of 
it — s'elp  me  God  it  is !  If  you  don't  b'lieve  it  ask 
Moncrossen — ask  Moncrossen,  I  mean,  if  he 
didn't  have  no  booze  along — he  must  'a'  been 
drunk — an'  him  crippled  thataway! 

"  Oh,  Lordy,  Lord !  I  ain't  supposed  to  know  it 
was  the  greener,  let  alone  he  was  crippled!  I'm 
all  mixed  up  a'ready!  They  better  not  go  askin' 
me  questions  lessen  they  want  to  git  me  hung — 
Goda'mi'ty !  I'd  ort  to  done  like  Moncrossen  said!" 

So  he  raved  in  a  frenzy  of  terror  as  the  horses 
sped  southward  at  a  pace  that  sent  the  steam  rising 
in  clouds  from  their  heaving  sides. 


160  The  Promise 

And  under  the  big  tarpaulin  in  the  rear  of  the 
sled-box  the  greener  grinned  as  he  listened,  and 
eyed  the  gibbering  man  through  a  narrow  slit  in 
the  heavy  canvas. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

DADDY  DUNNIGAN 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  Creed  pulled  the 
team  up  before  a  tumbled-down  stable  in  the  rear 
of  one  of  the  outstraggling  cabins  at  the  end  of 
Hilarity's  single  street.  Hastily  he  unhitched  and 
led  the  horses  through  the  door. 

As  he  disappeared  Bill  slipped  from  under  the 
canvas  and  limped  stiffly  around  the  corner  of  the 
stable,  and  none  too  soon,  for  as  Creed  returned 
to  the  sled  for  the  oats  and  blankets  the  cabin  door 
opened,  and  a  tall,  angular  woman  appeared, 
carrying  an  empty  water-pail. 

"So  ye've  come  back,  hev  ye?"  she  inquired  in 
a  shrewish  voice.  ' '  Well,  ye're  jest  in  time  to  fetch 
the  water  an'  wood.  Where  d'ye  git  that  rig?" 
she  added  sharply,  eying  the  sled. 

"None  o'  yer  damn  business!  An'  you  hurry 
up  an'  cook  breakfast  ag'in'  I  git  back  from  Bur- 
rage's,  er  I'll  rig  you!" 

"  Yeh,  is  that  so?  Jest  you  lay  a  ringer  on  me, 
you  damn  timber-thievin'  boot-legger,  an'  I'll 
bust  you  one  over  the  head  with  the  peaked  end  of 
a  rlatiron!    Where  ye  goin'  ter  hide  when  the 

«  161 


162  The  Promise 

owner  of  them  team  comes  a  huntin'  of  'em?    Haf 
ha,  ha!" 

"Shet  up!"  growled  the  man  so  shortly  that  the 
woman,  eying  him  narrowly,  turned  toward  the 
rickety  pump,  which  burbled  and  wheezed  as 
she  worked  the  handle,  filling  the  pail  in  spasmodic 
splashes. 

"One  of  Moncrossen's  teamsters  got  burnt  up 
in  the  shack  at  Melton's  No.  8,  an'  I  found  the 
team  in  the  stable  an'  druv  'em  in, "  he  vouchsafed 
as  he  brushed  by  the  woman  on  his  way  to  the 
street.  "  'Twouldn't  look  right  if  I  shet  up  about 
it;  I'll  be  back  when  I  tell  Burrage. " 

"Fetch  some  bacon  with  ye,"  called  the  woman 
as  she  filled  her  dirty  apron  with  chips.  She 
paused  before  lifting  the  pail  from  the  spout  of  the 
wooden  pump  and  gazed  speculatively  at  the  tote- 
sled. 

"  He's  lyin', "  she  said  aloud.  "  He's  up  to  some 
fresh  devilment,  an'  'pears  like  he's  scairt.  Trouble 
with  Creed  is,he  ain't  got  no  nerve — he's  all  mouth. 
I  sure  was  hard  up  f  er  a  man  when  I  tuk  him — but 
he  treats  me  middlin'  kind,  an'  I'd  kind  of  hate  to 
see  him  git  caught — 'cause  he  ain't  no  good  a 
liar,  an'  a  man  anyways  smart' d  mix  him  up  in  a 
minit." 

She  lifted  the  pail  and  pushed  through  the  door 
of  the  cabin. 

"Nice  people,"  muttered  Bill  as  he  cast  about 
for  an  exit. 

Keeping  the  stable  in  line  with  the  window  of  the 


Daddy  Dunnigan  163 

cabin,  he  made  his  way  through  a  litter  of  tin  cans 
and  rubbish,  gaining  the  shelter  of  the  scrub,  where 
he  bent  a  course  parallel  with  the  street. 

He  was  stiff  and  sore  from  his  cramped  position 
in  the  sled,  and  his  foot  pained  sharply.  His 
progress  was  slow,  and  he  paused  to  rest  on  the 
edge  of  a  small  clearing,  in  the  center  of  which, 
well  back  from  the  highway,  stood  a  tiny  cabin. 

In  the  doorway  an  old  man,  with  a  short  cutty- 
pipe  between  his  lips,  leaned  upon  a  crutch  and 
surveyed  the  sky  with  weatherwise  eyes. 

Bill  instantly  recognized  him  as  the  old  man  with 
the  twisted  leg  who  tendered  the  well-meant  advice 
upon  the  night  of  his  first  arrival  in  the  little  town, 
and  his  face  reddened  as  he  remembered  the  super- 
cilious disregard  with  which  he  had  received  it. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  advanced 
toward  the  door.  The  old  man  removed  his  cutty- 
pipe  and  regarded  him  curiously. 

"Good  morning!"  called  Bill  with  just  a  shade 
of  embarrassment. 

"Good  marnin'  yersilf!"  grinned  the  other,  a 
twinkle  in  his  little  eyes. 

"  May  I  ask  where  I  will  find  a  man  called  Daddy 
Dunnigan?" 

"In  about  foive  minutes  ye'll  foind  urn  atein' 
breakfust  wid  a  shtrappin'  young  hearty  wid  a 
sor3  fut.  Come  an  in.  Oi'm  me  own  housekaper, 
cook,  an'  bottle-washer;  but,  av  Oi  do  say  ut  me- 
silf,  Oi've  seen  wor-rse!" 

"So  you  are  Daddy  Dunnigan?"  asked  Bill  as 


164  The  Promise 

he  gazed  hungrily  upon  the  steaming  saucers  of 
oatmeal,  the  sizzling  ham,  and  the  yellow  globes  of 
fresh  eggs  fried  "sunny  side  up." 

"Ye' 11  take  a  wee  nip  befoor  ye  eat?"  asked  his 
host,  reaching  to  the  chimney-shelf  for  a  squat, 
black  bottle. 

11  No,  thanks, "  smiled  Bill.     "  I  don't  use  it. " 

"Me,  nayther, "  replied  the  other  with  a  chuckle ; 
"Oi  misuse  ut,"  and,  pouring  himself  a  good  half 
tin  cupful,  swallowed  it  neat  at  a  gulp. 

The  meal  over,  the  men  lighted  their  pipes,  and 
Bill  broached  the  object  of  his  visit.  The  old  man 
listened  and,  when  Bill  finished,  spat  reflectively 
into  the  wood-box. 

"So  Buck  Moncrossen  sint  ye  afther  me,  did 
he?" 

"Yes.  He  said  you  were  a  good  cook,  and  I  can 
certainly  bear  him  out  in  that;  but  he  said  that 
you  would  only  work  if  you  damn  good  and  felt 
like  it,  and  if  you  didn't  you  wouldn't."  The  old 
man  grinned. 

"He's  roight  agin,  an'  Oi'll  be  tellin'  ye  now 
Oi  damn  good  an'  don't  feel  loike  wor-rkin'  f'r 
Moncrossen,  th'  dirthy  pirate,  takin'  a  man's  pay 
wid  wan  hand  an'  shtealin'  his  timber  wid  th' 
other.  He'd  cut  th'  throat  av  his  own  mither  f'r 
th'  price  av  a  dhrink. 

"An'  did  he  sind  ye  down  afoot  an'  expict  me 
to  shtroll  back  wi'  ye,  th'  both  av  us  on  crutches?" 
"  No,  I  have  a  team  here, "  laughed  Bill.     "  They 
are  in  Creed's  stable." 


Daddy  Dunnigan  165 

"Creed's!"  The  old  man  glanced  at  him 
sharply.     "Phwat  ar-re  they  doin'  at  Creed's?" 

"  YvTell,  that  is  a  long  story ;  but  it  sums  up  about 
like  this:  I  see  you  know  Moncrossen — so  do  I. 
And  Moncrossen  is  afraid  I  will  crab  his  bird's- 
eye  game — and  I  will,  too,  when  the  proper  time 
comes. 

"But  he  saw  a  chance  to  get  rid  of  me,  so  he 
sent  me  after  you,  probably  knowing  that  you 
would  not  come ;  but  it  offered  an  excuse  to  get  me 
where  he  wanted  me.  Then  he  framed  it  up  with 
Creed  to  steal  the  team  in  the  night  while  I  was 
camped  at  Melton's  No.  8,  and  leave  me  to  die 
bushed. 

"I  built  a  fire  in  the  shack,  ate  my  supper, 
rigged  up  a  dummy  near  the  fire,  and  then  went 
out  to  the  sled  and  crawled  under  the  tarp.  After 
making  sure  that  I  was  asleep  Creed  stole  the 
team  as  per  schedule,  but  he  did  not  stop  at  that. 
He  decided  to  make  sure  of  me,  so  he  locked  the 
door  on  the  outside  and  fired  the  shack.  I  remained 
under  the  tarp,  and  as  Creed  was  going  my  way 
I  let  him  do  the  driving.  While  he  put  up  the  team 
I  slipped  out  the  back  way,  and  here  I  am. " 

"Th'  dirthy,  murdherin'  hound!"  exclaimed  the 
old  man,  chuckling  and  weaving  his  body  from 
side  to  side  in  evident  enjoyment  of  the  tale. 

"An'  phwat '11  ye  do  wid  um  now  ye're  here?" 
The  old  man  sat  erect  and  stared  into  the  face  of 
his  guest,  whose  eyes  had  narrowed  and  whose 
Hps  had  curved  into  an  icy  smile. 


1 66  The  Promise 

"First,  I'll  give  him  the  damnedest  licking  with 
my  two  fists  that  he  ever  got  in  his  life;  then  I'll 
turn  him  over  to  the  authorities. " 

Daddy  Dunnigan  leaned  forward  and,  laying  a 
gnarled  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  shook  him  roughly 
in  his  excitement : 

"Yer  name,  b'y?     Phwat  is  yer  name?"     His 
voice  quavered,  and  the  little  eyes  glittered  be- 
tween the  red-rimmed  lids,  bright  as  an  eagle's. 
The  younger  man  was  astonished  at  his  exctiement. 
"Why,  Bill,"  he  replied. 

"Bill  or  Moike  or  Pat^wurrah!  Oi  mane  yer 
rale  name — th'  whole  av  ut?" 

"That  I  have  not  told.  I  am  called  Bill. ' 
"Lord  av  hiven!  I  thocht  ut  th'  fir-rst  toime 
Oi  seen  ye— but  now!  Man!  B'y.  Wid  thim 
eyes  an'  that  shmile  on  yer  face,  d'ye  think  ye  c'd 
fool  owld  Daddy  Dunnigan,  that  was  fir-rst  corp'l 
t 'rough  two  campaigns  an'  a  scourge  av  peace  f'r 
Captain  Fronte  McKim? 

"Who  lucked  afther  um  loike  a  brother — an' 
loved  um  more — an'  who  fought  an'  swore  an' 
laughed  an'  dhrank  wid  um  t'rough  all  th'  plague- 
ridden  counthry  from  Kashmir  to  th'  say — an'  who 
wropped  um  in  his  blanket  f'r  th'  lasht  toime  an' 
helped  burry  um  wid  his  eyes  open — f'r  he'd  wished 
ut  so — on  th'  long,  brown  slope  av  a  rock-pocked 
Punjab  hill,  ranged  round  tin  deep  wid  th'  dead 
naygers  av  Hira  Kal?" 

Bill  stared  at  the  man  wide-eyed. 
"Fronte  McKim?"  he  cried. 


Daddy  Dunnigan  167 

"Aye,  Fronte  McKim!  As  sh'u'd  'a'  been 
gineral  av  all  Oirland,  England,  an'  Injia.  Av 
he'd  'a'  been  let  go  he'd  licked  th'  naygers  fir-rst  an' 
diplomated  phwat  was  lift  av  um.  He'd  made  urn 
shwim  off  th'  field  to  kape  from  dhroundin'  in  then- 
own  blood — an'  kep'  'em  good  aftherward  wid  th* 
buckle  ind  av  a  surcingle. 

"My  toime  was  up  phwin  he  was  kilt,  an' 
Oi  quit.  F'r  Oi  niver  'listed  to  rot  in  barracks. 
Oi  wint  back  to  Kerry  an'  told  his  mither,  th'  pale, 
sad  Lady  Constance — God  rist  her  sowlJ — that 
sint  foor  b'ys  to  th'  wars  that  niver  come  back — 
an'  wud  sint  foor  more  if  she'd  had  'em. 

"She  give  me  char-rge  av  th'  owld  eshtate,  wid 
th'  big  house,  an  th'  lawn  as  wide  an'  as  grane  as 
th'  angel  pastures  av  hiven — an'  little  Eily — his 
sisther — th'  purtiest  gur-rl  owld  Oirland  iver  bred, 
who  was  niver  tired  av  listhenin'  to  tales  av  her  big 
brother. 

"Oi  shtayed  till  th'  Lady  Constance  died  an' 
little  Eily  married  a  rich  man  from  Noo  Yor-rk — 
Car-rson,  or  meby  Carmen,  his  name  was;  an'  he 
carried  her  off  to  Amur-rica.  'Twas  not  th'  same 
in  Kerry  afther  that,  an'  Oi  shtrayed  from  th' 
gold  camps  av  Australia  to  th'  woods  av  Canada. " 

The  far-away  look  that  had  crept  into  the  old 
man's  eyes  vanished,  and  his  voice  became  gruff 
and  hard. 

"Oi've  hear-rd  av  yer  doin's  in  th'  timber1 — av 
yer  killin'  th'  werwolf  in  th'  midst  av  her  pack — an 
yer  lickin'  Moncrossen  wid  a  luk  an'  a  grin — av  yer 


168  The  Promise 

knockin'  out  Shtromberg  wid  t'ree  blows  av  yer 
fisht. 

' '  Ye  might  carry  th'  name  av  a  Noo  York  money- 
grubber,  but  yer  hear-rt  is  th'  hear-rt  av  a  foightin' 
McKim — an'  yer  eyes,  an'  that  smile — th'  McKim 
smile — that's  as  much  a  laugh  as  th'  growl  av  a 
grizzly — an'  more  dangerous  thin  a  cocked  gun." 

The  old  man  paused  and  filled  his  pipe,  mutter- 
ing and  chuckling  to  himself.  Bill  grasped  his 
hand,  wringing  it  in  a  mighty  grip. 

"You  have  guessed  it,"  he  said  huskily.  "My 
name  does  not  matter.  I  am  a  McKim.  She 
was  my  mother — Eily  McKim — and  she  used  to 
tell  ms  of  my  uncle — and  of  you. " 

"Did  she,  now?  Did  she  remember  me?"  he 
exclaimed.  "God  bless  th'  little  gur-rl.  An'  she 
is  dead?"  Bill  nodded,  and  Daddy  Dunnigan 
drew  a  coarse  sleeve  across  his  eyes  and  purled 
hard  at  his  short  pipe. 

"And  will  you  go  back  with  me  and  work  the  rest 
of  the  winter  for  Moncrossen?" 

The  old  man  remained  silent  so  long  that  Bill 
thought  he  had  not  heard.  He  was  about  to 
repeat  the  question  when  the  other  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  knee. 

"Oi  don't  have  to  wor-rk  f'r  no  man,  an*  Oi'll 
not  wor-rk  f'r  Moncrossen.  But  Oi'd  cross  hell 
on  thin  ice  in  July  to  folly  a  McKim  wanst  more, 
(  an'  if  to  do  ut  Oi  must  cook  f'r  Appleton's  camp, 
thin  so  ut  is.  Git  ye  some  shleep  now  whilst  Oi 
loaf  down  to  Burrage's. " 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CREED   SEES   A   GHOST 

When  Bill  awoke,  yellow  lamplight  flooded  the 
room  and  Daddy  Dunnigan  was  busy  about  the 
stove,  from  the  direction  of  which  came  a  cheerful 
sizzling  and  the  appetizing  odor  of  frying  meat  and 
strong  coffee. 

For  several  minutes  he  lay  in  a  delicious  drowse, 
idly  watching  the  old  man  as  he  hobbled  deftly 
from  stove  to  cupboard,  and  from  cupboard  to 
table. 

So  this  was  the  man,  he  mused,  of  whom  his 
mother  had  so  often  spoken  when,  as  a  little  boy, 
he  had  listened  with  bated  breath  to  her  tales  of 
the  fighting  McKims. 

He  remembered  how  her  soft  eyes  would  glow, 
and  her  lips  curve  with  pride  as  she  recounted  the 
deeds  of  her  warrior  kin. 

But,  most  of  all,  she  loved  to  tell  of  Captain 
Fronte,  the  big,  fighting,  devil-may-care  brother 
who  was  her  childish  idol;  and  of  one,  James 
Dunnigan,  the  corporal,  who  had  followed  Captain 
Fronte  through  all  the  wars,  and  to  whose  coolness 
and  courage  her  soldier  brother  owed  his  life  on 

169 


i7°  The  Promise 

more  than  one  occasion,  and  whose  devotion  and 
loyalty  to  the  name  of  McKim  was  a  byword 
throughout  the  regiment,  and  in  Kerry. 

"And  now,"  thought  Bill,  "  that  I  have  found 
him,  I  will  never  lose  sight  of  him.  He  needs  some 
to  look  after  him  in  his  old  age.  " 

Over  the  little  flat-topped  stove  the  leathern 
old  world-rover  muttered  and  chuckled  to  himself 
as  he  prodded  a  fork  into  the  browning  pork- 
chops,  shooting  now  and  then  an  affectionate 
glance  toward  the  bunk. 

"Saints  be  praised!"  he  muttered.  "Oi'd  av 
know'd  um  in  hiven  or  hell,  of  Hong-Kong. 
Captain  Fronte's  own  silf,  he  is,  as  loike  as  two 
peas.  An'  the  age  av  Captain  Fronte  befure  he 
was  kilt,  phwin  he  was  th'  besht  officer  in  all  th' 
British  ar-rmy — or  an-ny  ar-rmy. 

"Him  that  c'd  lay  down  th'  naygers  in  windrows 
all  day,  an'  dhrink,  an'  play  car-rds,  an'  make  love 
all  noight — an'  at  'em  agin  in  th'  marnin'!  An' 
now  Oi've  found  um  Oi'll  shtay  by  um  till  wan  av 
us  burries  th'  other.  For  whilst  a  McKim  roams 
th'  earth  James  Dunnigan's  place  is  to  folly  um. 

"An',  Lord  be  praised,  he's  a  foightin'  man — 
but  a  McKim  that  don't  dhrink !  Wurrah !  May- 
be he  wasn't  failin'  roight,  or  th'  liquor  didn't  look 
good  enough  fer  um.     Oi'll  thry  um  agin. " 

Bill  threw  off  the  blankets  and  sat  up  on  the 
'  edge  of  the  bunk. 

"That  grub  smells  good,  Daddy,"  he  sniffed. 

"Aye,  an  'twill  tashte  good,  too,  av  ye  fly  at  ut 


Creed  Sees  a  Ghost  171 

befure  ut  gits  cold.  Ye've  had  shleep  enough  fer 
two  min — Captain  Fronte'd  git  along  fer  wakes  at 
a  toime  on  foorty  winks  in  th'  saddle. " 

"I  am  afraid  I  will  have  a  hard  time  living  up  to 
Captain  Fronte's  standard,"  laughed  Bill,  as  he 
adjusted  his  bandages. 

"Well,  thin,  Oi'll  tell  yez  th*  fir-rst  thing  Captain 
Fronte'd  done  phwin  his  two  feet  hit  th'  flure: 
he'd  roar  fer  a  dhrink  av  good  liquor.  An'  thin 
he'd  ate  a  dozen  or  two  av  thim  pork-chops,  an' 
wash  'em  down  wid  a  gallon  av  black  coffee — an' 
he'd  be  roight  fer  an-nything  from  a  carouse  wid 
th'  brown  dancin'  Nautch  gir-rls,  to  a  brush  in  th' 
hills  wid  their  fightin'  brown  brothers. 

"Th'  liquor's  waitin' — ut  moightn't  be  as  good 
as  ye're  used,  but  Oi've  seen  Captain  Fronte  him- 
self shmack  his  lips  over  worse.  An'  as  fer  th' 
tin  cup — he'd  dhrink  from  a  batthered  tomaty  can 
or  a  lady's  shlipper,  an'  rasp  th'  dhregs  from  his 
t'roat  wid  a  cur-rse  or  a  song,  as  besht  fitted  th' 
toime  or  th'  place  he  was  in.  " 

The  old  man  began  to  pour  out  the  liquor: 
"Say  phwin,"  he  cried,  "an'  Oi've  yit  to  see  th' 
McKim  'twud  hurry  th'  wor-rd. " 

Bill  crossed  to  the  old  man,  who,  propped  against 
the  table,  watched  the  contents  of  the  bottle 
gurgle  and  splash  into  the  huge  tin  cup,  and  laid  a 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

"That  will  do,  Daddy,"  he  said. 

The  man  ceased  to  pour  and  peered  inquisitively 
into  the  cup.     " 'Taint  half  full  yit!"  he  protested, 


172  The  Promise 

passing  it  to  Bill,  who  set  it  before  him  upon  the 
table,  where  the  rich  fumes  reached  his  nostrils 
as  he  spoke: 

"This  whisky, "  he  began,  "smells  good — plenty 
good  enough  for  any  man.  But,  you  don't  seem 
to  understand.  I  don't  drink  whisky — good 
whisky,  or  bad  whisky,  or  old  whisky,  or  new 
whisky,  or  red,  white,  and  blue  whisky — or  any 
other  kind  of  booze. 

"I  have  drunk  it — bottles  of  it — kegs  of  it — 
barrels  of  it,  I  suppose,  for  I  played  the  game  from 
Harlem  to  the  Battery.     And  then  I  quit. " 

"Ye  ain't  tellin'  me  ye're  timperence?"  The 
old  man  inquired  with  concern  as  he  would  have 
inquired  after  an  ailment. 

"No;  that  is,  if  you  mean  am  I  one  of  those  who 
would  vote  the  world  sober  by  prohibiting  the  sale 
of  liquor.  It  is  a  personal  question  which  every 
man  must  meet  squarely — for  himself — not  for  his 
neighbor.  I  am  not  afraid  of  whisky.  I  am  not 
opposed  to  it,  as  an  issue.  In  fact,  I  respect  it, 
for,  personally,  it  has  given  me  one  peach  of  a  scrap 
—and  we  are  quits." 

The  old  man  listened  with  interest. 

"Ye  c'n  no  more  kape  a  McKim  from  foightin' 
thin  ye  c'n  kape  a  dacoit  from  staylin, "  he 
chuckled.  "  So  ye  tur-rned  in  an'  give  th'  crayther 
himsilf  a  foight — an'  ye  win  ut?  An'  phwat  does 
th'  gir-rl  think  av  ut?" 

"What!" 

■ '  Th'  gir-rl.     Is  she  proud  av  ye  ?     Or  is  she  wan 


Creed  Sees  a  Ghost  173 

av  thim  that  thinks  ut  aisy  to  quit  be  just  lavin' 
ut  alone?  For,  sure,  ut  niver  intered  th'  head  av 
man — let  alone  a  McKim,  to  tur-rn  ag'in'  liquor, 
lessen  they  was  a  gir-rl  at  th'  bottom  av  ut.  An' 
phwin  ar-re  ye  goin'  to  be  marrit?  For,  av  she's 
proud  av  ye.  ye'll  marry  her — but  av  she  takes  ut 
as  a  mather  av  coorse — let  some  wan  Use  git 
stung." 

Bill  regarded  the  old  man  sharply,  but  in  his 
bearing  was  no  hint  of  jesting  nor  raillery,  and  the 
little  eyes  were  serious. 

"Yes,  there  was  a  girl,"  said  Bill  slowly;  "but 
she — she  does  not  know." 

"  So  ye've  had  a  scrap  wid  her,  too !  But,  tell  me 
ye  didn't  run  away  from  ut — ye're  goin'  back?" 
Bill  made  no  reply,  and  the  old  man  conveyed  the 
food  to  the  table,  muttering  to  himself  the  while: 

"Sure  they's  more  foightin'  goin'  on  thin  Oi 
iver  thought  to  see  ag'in.  Ut  ain't  rid  war,  but 
ut  ain't  so  bad — werwolves,  Moncrossen,  booze, 
Creed,  a  bit  av  a  gir-rl  somewheres,  Shtromberg — 
th'  wor-rld  is  growin'  bether  afther  all,  an'  Oi'm 
goin'  to  be  in  th'  thick  av  ut ! " 

Supper  over,  Bill  donned  mackinaw,  cap,  and 
mittens. 

"Phwere  ye  goin'?"  asked  Dunnigan. 

"To  find  Creed." 

"Wait  a  bit,  'tis  early  yit.  In  half  an  hour 
he'll  be  clost  around  Burrage's  shtove,  tellin'  th' 
b'ys  about  th'  bur-rnt  shack  at  Melton's." 

Bill  resumed  his  chair. 


174  The  Promise 

"Oi've  been  thinkin'  ut  out,"  continued  Daddy, 
between  short  puffs  at  his  cutty-pipe.  "  Ye'll  have 
no  fun  lickin'  Creed — 'tis  shmall  satisfaction 
foightin'  a  man  that  won't  foight  back.  An-ny- 
how,  a  black  eye  or  a  bloody  nose  is  soon  minded. 
An'  av  ye  tur-rn  um  over  to  th'  authorities  ye 
ain't  got  much  on  um,  an'  ye  can't  pr-rove  phwat 
ye  have  got. 

"But  listen:  Creed's  a  dhrivlin'  jobbernowl 
that  orders  his  comin's  be  th'  hang  av  th'  moon, 
an'  his  goin's  be  th'  dhreams  av  his  head.  He 
thinks  y're  dead.  Now,  av  ye  shtroll  into  Bur- 
rages  loike  nothin'  out  av  th'  oordinary  has  hap- 
pened, he'll  think  ye're  a  ghost — an'  th'  fear  in  his 
heart  will  shtay  by  um. 

"Oi'll  loaf  down  there  now,  same  as  ivery 
noight.  In  about  a  half  an  hour  ye'll  come  limpin' 
in  an'  ask  fer  Dunnigan,  an'  will  he  cook  out  th' 
sayson  fer  Moncrossen?  'Twill  be  fun  to  watch 
Creed.  He'll  be  scairt  shtifl  an'  white  as  a  biied 
shirt,  or  he'll  melt  down  an'  dhribble  out  t'rough 
a  crack  av  th'  flure. " 

And  so,  a  half-hour  later,  Bill  Carmody  for  the 
second  time  pushed  open  Hod  Burrage's  door  and 
made  his  way  to  the  stove. 

The  scene  in  no  wise  differed  from  the  time  of 
his  previous  visit.  Slabs  of  bacon  still  hung  from 
the  roof  logs  beside  the  row  of  tin  coffee-pots ;  the 
sawdust-filled  box  was  still  the  object  of  intermit- 
tent bombardment  by  the  tobacco-chewers,  the 
uncertainty  of  whose  aim  was  mutely  attested  by 


Creed  Sees  a  Ghost  175 

the  generous  circumference  of  brown-stained  floor 
of  which  the  box  was  the  center. 

Grouped  about  the  stove,  upon  counter,  barrel- 
head, and  up-ended  goods  box,  were  the  same 
decaying  remnants  of  the  moldering  town's 
vanishing  population. 

The  thick,  cloudy  glass  with  its  sticky  edges  still 
circulated  for  the  common  good,  and  above  the 
heads  of  the  unkempt  men  the  air  reeked  gray  with 
the  fumes  of  rank  tobacco. 

Only  the  man  who  entered  had  changed.  In 
his  bearing  was  no  hint  of  superiority  nor  intoler- 
ance; he  advanced  heartily,  hailing  these  men  as 
equals  and  friends.  Near  the  stove  he  halted, 
leaning  upon  his  crutch,  and  swept  the  group  with 
a  glance. 

"Good  evening!  Do  any  one  of  you  men  hap- 
pen to  be  named  Dunnigan?" 

From  the  moment  the  tap  of  Bill's  crutch 
sounded  upon  the  wooden  floor,  Creed,  who  had 
paused  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence  of  his  highly 
colored  narrative,  stared  at  the  newcomer  as  one 
would  ordinarily  stare  when  a  person  known  to  be 
dead  casually  steps  up  and  bids  one  good  evening. 

His  mouth  did  not  open,  his  lower  jaw  merely 
sagged  away  from  his  face,  exposing  his  tongue 
lying  thick  and  flabby  upon  yellow  teeth.  His 
out-bulging  eyes  fixed  the  features  of  the  man 
before  him  with  a  glassy,  unwinking  stare,  like 
the  stare  of  a  fish. 

Into  his  brain,  at  first,  came  no  thought  a  tall; 


176  The  Promise 

merely  a  dumb  sense  of  unreasoning  terror  under 
which  his  muscles  went  flaccid,  and  out  of  control, 
so  that  his  body  shrank  limp  and  heavy  against  its 
backing  of  bolt-goods. 

Then,  suddenly  a  rush  of  thoughts  crowded  his 
brain,  tangled  thoughts,  and  weird — of  deep 
significance,  but  without  sequence  nor  reason. 

What  had  they  told  of  this  man  in  the  woods? 
How  he  had  battled  hand  to  claw  with  the  werwolf 
and  received  no  hurt.  How  he  had  cowed  the  boss 
with  a  look,  and  laid  the  mighty  Stromberg  cold 
in  the  batting  of  an  eye. 

He  himself  had,  but  twenty  hours  since,  seeii 
this  man  lying  helpless  upon  the  floor  of  a  locked 
shack,  ringed  round  with  roaring  flames,  beyond 
any  human  possibility  of  escape. 

And  here  he  stood,  crippled  beyond  perad- 
venture  of  trail-travel,  yet  fresh  and  unfatigued, 
forty  miles  from  the  scene  of  his  burning !  A  thin 
trickle  of  ice  crept  downward  along  his  spine  and, 
overmastering  all  other  emotions,  came  the  desire 
to  be  elsewhere. 

He  slid  from  the  counter  and,  as  his  feet  touched 
the  floor,  his  knees  crumpled  and  he  sprawled  his 
length  almost  at  the  feet  of  the  man  who  could 
not  die. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Creed  aged  materially  during 
his  journey  to  the  door,  but  to  the  onlookers  his 
exit  seemed  a  miracle  of  frantic  haste  as  he  clawed 
and  scrambled  the  length  of  the  room  on  hands  and 
knees  in  a  maudlin  panic  of  terror. 


Creed  Sees  a  Ghost  177 

And  out  into  the  night,  as  he  ran  in  the  first 
direction  he  faced,  the  upper  most  thought  in  his 
mind  was  a  blind  rage  against  Moncrossen. 

The  boss  himself  was  afraid  of  this  man,  yet  he 
had  sent  him,  Creed,  to  make  away  with  him— 
alone — in  the  night!  The  quavering  breath  left 
his  throat  in  long  moans  as  he  ran  on  and  on  and 
on. 

"Your  friend  seems  to  have  been  in  something 
of  a  hurry, "  ventured  Bill,  as  Burrage  gave  a  final 
twist  to  the  old  newspaper  in  which  he  was  wrap- 
ping Fallon's  jug. 

The  storekeeper  regarded  his  customer  quiz- 
zically and  spat  with  surprising  accuracy  into  the 
box. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  dryly,  "Creed,  he's  mostly 
in  a  hurry  when  they's  strangers  about.  But 
to-night  he  seemed  right  down  anxious  thataway. " 

13 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HEAD-LINES 

The  brute  in  Moncrossen  held  subservient  the 
more  human  emotions,  else  he  must  surely  have 
betrayed  his  surprise  when,  twelve  hours  ahead 
of  schedule,  the  greener  swung  the  long-geared 
tote  team  to  a  stand  in  front  of  the  office  door. 

Not  only  had  he  made  the  trip  without  mishap, 
but  accomplished  the  seemingly  impossible  in  per- 
suading Daddy  Dunnigan  to  cook  for  a  log  camp, 
when  in  all  reason  the  old  man  should  have  scorned 
the  proposition  in  a  torrent  of  Irish  profanity. 

Moncrossen  dealt  only  in  facts.  Speculation  as 
to  cause  and  effect  found  no  place  in  his  mental 
economy.  His  plan  had  miscarried.  For  that 
Creed  must  answer  later.  The  fact  that  concerned 
him  now  was  that  the  greener  continued  to  be  a 
menace  to  his  scheme. 

Had  Creed  in  some  manner  bungled  the  job? 
Or  had  he  passed  it  up?  He  must  find  out  how 
much  the  greener  knew.  The  boss  guessed  that  if 
the  other  had  unearthed  the  plot,  he  would  force 
an  immediate  crisis. 

And  so  he  watched  narrowly,  but  with  apparent 

178  . 


Head-Lines  179 

unconcern,  while  Bill  climbed  from  the  sled,  fol- 
lowed by  Daddy  Dunnigan.  On  the  hard-packed 
snow  of  the  clearing  the  two  big  men  faced  each 
other,  and  the  expression  of  each  was  a  perfect 
mask  to  his  true  emotions. 

But  the  greener  knew  that  the  boss  was  masking, 
while  Moncrossen  accepted  the  other's  guileless 
expression  at  its  face  value,  and  his  pendulous  lips 
widened  into  a  grin  of  genuine  relief  as  he  greeted 
the  arrivals. 

' '  Hullo !  You  back  a'ready  ?  Hullo,  Dunnigan ! 
I'm  sure  glad  you  come;  we'll  have  some  real  grub 
fer  a  change. 

"Hey,  LaFranz!"  he  called  to  the  passing 
Frenchman.  "  Put  up  this  team  an'  pack  the  gear 
to  the  bunk-house." 

As  the  man  drove  away  in  the  direction  of  the 
stable,  Moncrossen  regarded  the  others  largely. 

"Come  on  in  an'  have  a  drink,  boys, "  he  invited, 
throwing  wide  the  door.     "How's  the  foot? " 

"Better,"  replied  Bill.  "It  will  be  as  good  as 
ever  in  a  week." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  'cause  I  sure  am  cramped  fer 
hands.  I'll  let  Fallon  break  you  into  sawin'  an 
put  Stromberg  to  teamin' ;  he's  too  pot-gutted  fer 
a  sawyer. " 

Moncrossen  produced  a  bottle  as  the  others 
seated  themselves. 

"What — don't  drink?"  he  exclaimed,  as  Bill 
passed  the  bottle  to  Dunnigan.  "That's  so; 
b'lieve  I  did  hear  some  one  say  you  didn't  use  no 


180  The  Promise 

booze.  Well,  every  man  to  his  own  likin'.  M( 
about  three  good,  stiff  jolts  a  day,  an'  a  big  drunk 
in  the  spring  an'  fall,  is  about  my  gait.  Have  a 
seegar. "  Bill  accepted  the  proffered  weed  and 
bit  off  the  end. 

"How!"  he  said,  with  a  short  sweep  of  the  arm; 
then,  scratching  a  match  on  the  rung  of  his  chair, 
lighted  the  unsavory  stogie. 

Thus  each  man  took  measure  of  the  other,  and 
Daddy  Dunnigan  tilted  the  bottle  and  drank  deep, 
the  while  he  took  shrewd  measure  of  both. 

It  was  in  the  early  afternoon  of  the  following 
day  that  Bill  Carmody  tossed  aside  his  magazine 
and  yawned  drowsily.  Alone  in  the  bunk-house, 
his  glance  roved  idly  over  the  room,  with  its  tiers 
of  empty  bunks  and  racks  of  drying  garments. 

It  rested  for  a  moment  upon  his  bandaged  foot 
propped  comfortably  upon  Fallon's  bunk,  directly 
beneath  his  own,  and  strayed  to  the  floor  where  just 
under  its  edge,  still  wrapped  in  the  soiled  news- 
paper, sat  the  gallon  jug  that  Fallon  suggested  in 
case  the  greener  saw  fit  to  heed  his  warning. 

Bill  smiled  dreamily.  Unconsciously  his  lips 
spelled  out  the  words  of  some  head-lines  that  stared 
at  him  from  the  rounded  surface  of  the  jug: 

POPULAR  MEMBERS  OF  NEW  YORK'S  FOUR  HUNDRED 

TO  WED. 

"Wonder  who?"  thought  Bill.  Reaching  for  his 
crutch,  he  slipped  the  end  through  the  handle  of 


Head-Lines  181 

the  jug  and  drew  it  toward  him.  He  raised  it  to 
his  lap  and  the  words  of  the  succeeding  line  struck 
upon  his  brain  like  an  electric  shock : 

Engagement  of  Miss  Ethel  Manton  and  Gregory 
St.  Ledger  Soon  to  be  Announced. 

Feverishly  his  eyes  devoured  the  following  lines 
of  the  extended  heading : 

Time  of  Wedding  Not  Set.     Will  Not  Take  Place 
Immediately,    'Tis   Said.    Prospective   Bride- 
groom to  Sail  for  Europe  in  Spring. 

And  then  the  two  lines  of  the  story  that  ap- 
peared at  the  very  bottom,  where  the  paper  folded 
under  the  edge  of  the  jug: 

New  York,  February  i.  (Special  to  Tribune.) 
— As  a  distinct  surprise  in  elite  circles  will  come  the 
announcement  of  the  engage 

He  tilted  the  jug  in  frenzied  eagerness  to  absorb 
every  detail  of  the  bitter  news,  and  was  confronted 
by  the  rough,  stone  bottom  which  had  worn 
through  the  covering,  leaving  mangled  shreds  of 
paper,  whose  rolled  and  mutilated  edges  were 
undecipherable. 

Vainly  he  tried  to  restore  the  tattered  remnants, 
but  soon  abandoned  the  hopeless  task  and  sat 
staring  at  the  head-lines. 

Over  and  over  again  he  read  them  as  if  to  grasp 


i82  The  Promise 

their  significance,  and  then,  with  a  full  realization 
of  their  import,  he  closed  his  eyes  and  sat  long  amid 
the  crumbled  ruin  of  his  hopes. 

For  he  had  hoped.  In  spite  of  the  scorn  in  her 
voice  as  she  dismissed  him,  and  the  bitter  resent- 
ment of  his  own  parting  words,  he  loved  her;  and 
upon  the  foundation  of  this  love  he  had  builded  the 
hope  of  its  fulfillment. 

A  hope  that  one  day  he  would  return  to  her, 
clean  and  strong  in  the  strength  of  achievement, 
and  that  his  great  passion  would  beat  down  the 
barrier  and  he  would  claim  her  as  of  right. 

Suddenly  he  realized  that  as  much  as  upon  the 
solid  foundation  of  his  own  great  love,  the  hope 
depended  upon  the  false  substructure  of  her  love 
for  him. 

And  the  false  substructure  had  crumbled  at  the 
test.  She  loved  another;  had  suddenly  become  as 
unattainable  as  the  stars — and  was  lost  to  him 
forever. 

The  discovery  brought  no  poignant  pain,  no 
stabbing  agony  of  a  fresh  heart-wound ;  but  worse 
—the  dull,  deep,  soul-hurt  of  annihilation;  the 
hurt  that  damns  men's  lives. 

Ke  smiled  with  bitter  cynicism  as  his  thoughts 
dwelt  upon  the  little  love  of  women,  the  shifting 
love,  that  rests  but  lightly  on  the  heart,  to  change 
with  the  changing  moon.  And  upon  the  constancy 
of  such  love  he  had  dared  to  build  his  future! 

"Fool!"  he  cried,  and  laughed  aloud,  a  short, 
hard  laugh — the  laugh  that  makes  God  frown. 


Head-Lines  183 

From  the  water-pail  at  his  side  he  drew  the  long- 
handled  dipper  and  removed  the  cork  from  the  jug 
and  tilted  the  jug,  and  watched  the  red  liquor 
splash  noisily  from  its  wide  mouth. 

From  that  moment  he  would  play  a  man's 
game;  would  smash  Moncrossen  and  his  bird's-eye 
men;  would  learn  logs  and  run  camps,  and  among 
the  big  men  of  the  rough  places  would  win  to  the 
fore  by  the  very  force  and  abandon  of  him. 

He  had  beaten  the  whisky  game;  had  demon- 
strated his  ability  to  best  John  Barleycorn  on  his 
own  terms  and  in  his  own  fastnesses. 

And  now  he  would  drink  whisky — much  whisky 
or  little  whisky  as  he  saw  fit,  for  there  was  none 
to  gainsay  him — and  in  his  life  henceforth  no 
woman  could  cause  him  pain. 

He  raised  the  dipper  to  his  lips,  and  the  next 
instant  it  rang  upon  the  floor,  and  over  the  whole 
front  of  him  splashed  the  raw  liquor,  and  in  his 
nostrils  was  the  fume  and  reek  of  it. 

Unmindful  of  his  injury,  he  leaped  to  his  feet 
and  turned  to  face  Daddy  Dunnigan,  who  was 
returning  his  crutch  to  his  armpit. 

"Toimes  Oi've  yanked  Captain  Fronte  from  th' 
road  av  harm,"  the  old  man  was  saying,  and  the 
red-rimmed,  rheumy  eyes  shone  bright;  "wanst 
from  in  front  av  a  char-rge  av  the  hillmen  an' 
wanst  beyant  Khybar.  But  Oi'm  thinkin'  niver 
befoor  was  Oi  closter  to  th'  roight  place  at  th' 
roight  toime  thin  a  minit  agone. 

"Whisky  is  made  to  be  dhrank  fer  a  pastime  av 


1 84  The  Promise 

enj'ymint — not  alone — wid  a  laugh  loike  that. 
Ye've  got  th'  crayther  on  th'  run,  but  ye  must  give 
no  quarter.  Battles  is  won  not  in  th'  thruse,  but 
in  th'  foightin*. 

"No  McKim  iver  yit  raised  th'  white  flag,  an' 
none  iver  died  wid  his  back  to  th'  front.  Set  ye 
down,  lad,  an'  think  it  over." 

He  finished  speaking  and  hobbled  toward  the 
door,  and,  passing  out,  closed  it  behind  him. 
Alone  in  the  bunk-house  Bill  Carmody  turned 
again  to  the  jug  and  fitted  the  cork  to  its  mouth, 
and  with  his  crutch  pushed  it  under  the  edge  of 
Fallon's  bunk. 

Hours  later,  when  the  men  stamped  in  noisily 
to  the  wash-bench,  he  was  sitting  there  in  the 
dark — thinking. 

The  results  of  Daddy  Dunnigan's  cooking  were 
soon  evident  in  the  Blood  River  camp.  Men  no 
longer  returned  to  the  bunk-house  growling  and 
cursing  the  grub,  and  Moncrossen  noted  with 
satisfaction  that  the  daily  cut  was  steadily  climb- 
ing toward  the  eighty-thousand  mark. 

The  boss  added  a  substantial  bonus  for  each  day's 
"top  cut, "  and  in  the  lengthening  days  an  intense 
rivalry  sprang  up  between  the  sawyers;  not  in- 
frequently Bill  and  Fallon  were  "  in  on  the  money. " 

It  was  nearly  two  weeks  after  the  incident,  that 
Creed  came  to  Moncrossen  with  his  own  story  of 
what  happened  that  night  at  Melton's  No,  8, 
and  the  boss  knew  that  he  lied. 


Head-Lines  185 

As  they  talked  in  the  little  office  the  greener,  ac- 
companied by  Fallon,  passed  close  to  the  window. 

At  the  sight  of  the  man  the  spotter's  face  became 
pasty,  and  he  shrank  trembling  and  wide-eyed, 
as  from  the  sight  of  a  ghost,  and  Moncrossen 
knew  that  his  abject  terror  was  not  engendered 
by  physical  fear. 

He  flew  into  a  rage,  cursing  and  bullying  the 
craven,  but  failed  utterly  to  dispel  the  unwhole- 
some fear  or  to  shake  the  other's  repeated  state- 
ment that  at  a  few  minutes  past  ten  o'clock  that 
night  he  had  seen  the  greener  lying  hopelessly 
drunk  upon  the  floor  of  the  shack  with  the  flames 
roaring  about  him,  and  at  six  o'clock  the  next 
evening  had  seen  him  hobble  into  Burrage's  store, 
forty  miles  to  the  southward,  fresh  and  apparently 
unharmed  save  for  his  injured  foot. 

Moncrossen's  hatred  of  the  greener  rested  pri- 
marily upon  the  fear  that  one  day  he  would  expose 
him  to  Appleton;  added  to  this  was  a  mighty 
jealousy  of  his  rapid  rise  to  proficiency  and  the 
rankling  memory  of  the  scene  of  their  first  meeting 
in  the  grub-shack. 

But  his  fear  of  him  was  a  physical  fear — a  fear 
bom  of  the  certain  knowledge  that,  measured  by 
his  own  standards,  the  greener  was  the  better  man. 

And  now  came  the  perplexing  question  as  to 
how  the  man  had  reached  Hilarity  when  Creed 
was  known  to  have  arrived  there  with  the  team 
eight  hours  after  the  burning  of  the  shack. 

The  boss  had   carefully   verified    so  much    of 


1 86  The  Promise 

Creed's  story  by  a  guarded  pumping  of  Dunnigan, 
and  the  crafty  old  Irishman  took  keen  delight  in  so 
wording  his  answers,  and  interspersing  them  with 
knowing  winks  and  quirks  of  the  head,  as  to  add 
nothing  to  the  boss's  peace  of  mind. 

While  not  sharing  Creed's  belief  in  the  greener's 
possession  of  uncanny  powers,  nevertheless  he 
knew  that,  whatever  happened  that  night,  the 
greener  knew  more  than  he  chose  to  tell,  and  as  his 
apprehension  deepened  his  rage  increased. 

Hate  smoldered  in  the  swinish  eyes  as,  in  the 
seclusion  of  the  office,  he  glowered  and  planned  and 
rumbled  his  throaty  threats. 

"The  drive,"  he  muttered.  "My  Bucko  Bill, 
you're  right  now  picked  for  the  drive,  an'  I'll  see 
to  it  myself  that  you  git  yourn  in  the  river. " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  LOG  JAM 

The  feel  of  spring  filled  the  air;  the  sun  swung 
higher  and  higher;  and  the  snow  turned  dark  and 
lay  soggy  with  water.  With  the  increasing 
warmth  of  the  longer  days,  men's  thoughts  turned 
to  the  drive. 

They  talked  of  water-front  streets,  with  their 
calk-riddled  plank  sidewalks  and  low-fronted  bars ; 
of  squalid  back  wine-rooms,  where  for  a  week  they 
would  be  allowed  to  bask,  sodden,  in  the  smiles  of 
the  painted  women — then,  drugged,  beaten,  and 
robbed,  would  wake  up  in  a  filthy  alley  and  hunt 
up  a  job  in  the  mills. 

It  was  all  in  a  lifetime,  this  annual  spring  de- 
bauch. The  men  accepted  it  as  part  of  the  ordered 
routine  of  their  lives;  accepted  it  without  shame 
or  regret,  boasting  and  laughing  unblushingly  over 
past  episodes — facing  the  future  gladly  and  with- 
out disgust. 

"You  mind  Jake  Sonto's  place,  where  big  Myrtle 
hangs  out?  They"  frisked  Joe  Manning  fer  sixty 
bucks  last  year.  I  seen  'em  do  it.  What!  Me?  I 
was  too  sleepy  to  give  a  cuss — they  got  mine,  too. " 

187 


1 88  The  Promise 

And  so  the  talk  drifted  among  them.  Revolting 
details  of  abysmal  man-failings,  brutal  reminis- 
cences of  knock-out  drops,  robbery,  and  even  mur- 
der, furnished  the  themes  for  jest  and  gibe  which 
drew  forth  roars  of  laughter. 

And  none  sought  to  avoid  the  inevitable; 
rather,  they  looked  forward  to  it  in  brutish  antici- 
pation, accepting  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

For  so  had  lumberjacks  been  drugged,  beaten, 
and  robbed  since  the  first  pine  fell — and  so  will 
they  continue  to  be  drugged,  beaten,  and  robbed 
until  the  last  log  is  jerked,  dripping,  from  the 
river  and  the  last  white  board  is  sawed. 

On  the  night  of  the  8th  of  April  the  cut  was 
complete,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  9th  ten  mil- 
lion feet  of  logs  towered  on  the  rollways  along  the 
river,  ready  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  ice. 

Stromberg  had  banked  the  bird's-eye  to  his  own 
satisfaction,  and  Moncrossen  selected  his  crew  for 
the  drive — white-water  men,  whose  boast  it  was 
that  they  never  had  walked  a  foot  from  the  timber 
to  the  mills;  bateau  men,  who  laughed  in  the  face 
of  death  as  they  swarmed  over  a  jam ;  key-log  men, 
who  scorned  dynamite ;  bend  watchers,  whose  duty 
it  is  to  stay  awake  through  the  long,  warm  days 
and  prevent  the  formation  of  jams  as  the  drive 
shoots  by — each  selected  with  an  eye  to  previous 
experience  and  physical  fitness. 

For,  among  all  occupations  of  men,  log  driving 
stands  unique  for  its  hardships  of  peril,  discomfort, 
and  bone-racking  toil. 


The  Logjam  189 

From  the  breaking  out  of  the  railways  until  the 
last  log  slips  smoothly  into  its  place  in  the  boom- 
raft,  no  man's  life  is  safe. 

Yet  men  fight  for  a  place  on  the  drive — for  the 
privilege  of  being  soaked  to  the  bone  for  days  at 
a  time  in  ice-cold  water;  of  being  crushed  to  a 
pulp  between  grinding  logs;  of  being  drowned  in 
white-water  rapids,  where  a  man  must  stand,  his 
log  moving  at  the  speed  of  an  express  train,  time 
and  again  shooting  half  out  of  water  to  meet  the 
spray  of  the  next  rock- tossed  wave;  of  making 
hair-trigger  decisions,  when  an  instant's  hesita- 
tion means  death,  as  his  log  rushes  under  the  low- 
hanging  branches  of  a  "sweeper." 

For  pure  love  of  adventure  they  fight — and  that 
a  few  more  dollars  may  find  their  way  into  the 
tills  of  the  Jake  Sontos  of  the  water-front  dives. 
For  among  these  men  the  baiting  of  death  is  the 
excitement  of  life,  and  their  pleasures  are  the 
savage  pleasures  of  firstlings. 

Those  who  were  not  of  the  drive  were  handed 
their  vouchers  and  hauled  to  Hilarity,  while  those 
who  remained  busied  themselves  in  the  packing 
and  storing  of  gear;  for,  in  the  fall,  the  crew 
would  return  to  renew  the  attack  on  the  timber. 

Followed,  then,  days  of  waiting. 

The  two  bateaux — the  cook's  bateau,  with  its 
camp  stove  and  store  of  supplies;  and  the  big 
bateau,  with  its  thousand  feet  of  inch  and  a  half 
manila  line  coiled  for  instant  use,  whose  thick, 
flaring  sides  and  floor  of  selected  timber  were  built 


19°  The  Promise 

to  override  the  shock  and  battering  of  a  thousand 
pitching  logs — were  carried  to  the  bank  ready  for 
launching. 

The  sodden  snow  settled  heavily,  and  around 
the  base  of  stumps  and  the  trunks  of  standing  trees 
appeared  rings  of  bare  ground,  while  the  course 
of  the  skidways  and  cross-hauls  stood  out  sharp 
and  black,  like  great  veins  in  the  clearing. 

Each  sag  and  depression  became  a  pond,  and 
countless  rills  and  rivulets  gurgled  riverward, 
bank-full  with  sparkling  snow-water. 

Over  the  frozen  surface  of  the  river  it  flowed  and 
wore  at  the  shore-bound  ice-floor.  And  then,  one 
night,  the  ice  went  out. 

Titanically  it  went,  and  noisily,  with  the  crash 
and  grind  of  broken  cakes;  and  in  the  morning 
the  river  rushed  black,  and  deep,  and  swollen,  its 
roiled  waters  tearing  sullenly  at  crumbling  banks, 
while  upon  its  muddy  surface  heaved  belated  ice- 
cakes  and  uprooted  trees. 

At  daylight  men  crowded  the  bank,  the  bend 
watchers  strung  out  and  took  up  their  positions, 
and  white-water  men  stood  by  with  sharp  axes 
to  break  out  the  rollways. 

The  first  rollway  broke  badly. 

A  thick-butted  log  slanted  and  met  the  others 
head-on  as  they  thundered  down  the  bank,  tossing 
them  high  in  the  air  whence  they  fell  splashing  into 
the  river,  or  crashed  backward  among  the  tumbling 
logs,  upending,  and  hurling  them  about  like  jack- 
straws. 


The  Log  Jam  191 

The  air  was  filled  with  the  heavy  rumble  of 
rolling  logs  as  other  rollways  tore  loose  at  the  swift 
blows  of  the  axes,  where,  at  the  crack  of  toggle- 
pins,  men  leaped  from  in  front  of  the  rolling,  crush- 
ing death ;  and  the  surface  of  the  river  became  black 
with  bucking,  pitching  logs  which  shot  to  the 
opposite  bank. 

Coincident  with  the  snapping  of  the  first  toggle- 
pin,  the  branches  of  a  gigantic,  storm-blasted 
pine,  whose  earth-laded  butt  dragged  heavily 
along  the  bottom  of  the  river,  became  firmly 
entangled  in  the  low-hanging  limbs  of  a  sweeper, 
and  swung  sluggishly  across  the  current. 

Against  this  obstruction  crashed  the  leaping, 
upending  logs  of  the  wrecked  roll  way.  Other 
logs  swept  in  and  wedged,  forcing  the  heavy  butt 
and  the  riven  trunk  of  the  huge  tree  firmly  against 
the  rocks  at  the  head  of  the  rapid. 

Rollway  after  rollway  tore  loose  and  the  re- 
leased logs,  swept  downward  by  the  resistless  push 
of  the  current,  climbed  one  upon  another  and 
lodged.  Higher  and  higher  the  jam  towered,  the 
interlocking  logs  piling  in  hopeless  tangle. 

Moncrossen  was  beside  himself.  Up  and  down 
the  bank  he  rushed,  bellowing  orders  and  hurling 
curses  at  the  men  who,  gripping  their  peaveys, 
swarmed  over  the  heaving  jam  like  flies. 

The  bateau  men,  forty  of  them,  lifted  the  heavy 
boat  bodily,  and  working  it  out  to  the  very  fore- 
front of  the  jam,  lowered  it  into  the  water,  while 
other  men  made  the  heavy  cable  fast  to  the  trunk 


192  The  Promise 

of  a  tree.  Close  under  the  towering  pile  the  bateau 
was  snubbed  with  a  short,  light  line,  and  the  men 
clambered  shoreward,  leaving  only  Moncrossen, 
Stromberg,  Fallon,  and  one  other  to  search  for 
the  key-log. 

It  was  a  comparatively  simple  jam,  the  key 
to  which  was  instantly  apparent  to  the  experienced 
rivermen,  in  two  large  logs  wedged  in  the  form  of 
an  inverted  V.  The  quick  twist  of  a  peavey  in- 
serted at  the  vertex  of  the  angle,  and  the  drive 
should  move. 

Fallon  and  Stromberg,  past  masters  both  of  the 
drive  made  ready  while  the  other  stood  by  to  cast 
off  the  light  line  and  allow  the  bateau  to  swing  free 
on  the  main  cable. 

Moncrossen  clambered  to  the  top  to  shout  warn- 
ing to  those  who  swarmed  over  the  body  of  the 
jam  and  along  the  edges  of  the  river. 

At  the  first  bellowed  orders  of  the  boss,  Bill 
Carmody  had  leaped  onto  the  heaving  jam  and, 
following  in  the  wake  of  others,  began  picking  his 
way  to  the  opposite  shore. 

New  to  the  game,  he  had  no  definite  idea  of  what 
was  expected  of  him,  so,  with  an  eye  upon  those 
nearest  him,  he  determined  to  follow  their  example. 

To  watch  from  the  bank  and  see  men  whose 
boast  it  is  that  they  "c'd  ride  a  bubble  if  their 
calks  wouldn't  prick  it,"  leap  lightly  from  log  to 
rolling  log;  hesitate,  run  its  length,  and  leap  to 
another  as  it  sinks  under  them,  nothing  looks 
simpler. 


The  Log  Jam  193 

But  the  greener  who  confidently  tries  it  for  the 
first  time  instantly  finds  himself  in  a  position  un- 
comfortably precarious,  if  not  actually  dangerous. 

Bill  found,  to  his  disgust,  that  the  others  had 
gained  the  opposite  bank  before  he  had  reached 
the  middle,  where  he  paused,  balancing  uncertainly 
and  hesitating  whether  to  go  ahead  or  return. 

The  log  upon  which  he  stood  oscillated  dizzily, 
and  as  he  sprang  for  another,  his  foot  slipped  and 
he  fell  heavily,  his  peavey  clattering  downward 
among  the  promiscuously  tangled  logs,  to  come 
to  rest  some  six  feet  beneath  him,  where  the  white- 
water  curled  foaming  among  the  logs  of  the  lower 
tier. 

Bill  glanced  hastily  about  him,  expecting  the 
shouts  of  laughter  and  good-natured  chaffing 
which  is  the  inevitable  aftermath  of  the  clumsy 
misadventure  of  a  riverman.  The  bateau  men 
were  just  gaining  the  shore  and  the  attention  of 
the  others  was  engaged  elsewhere,  so  that  none 
noticed  the  accident,  and,  with  a  grin  of  relief, 
Bill  clambered  down  to  recover  his  peavey. 

And  Moncrossen,  peering  over  the  top  of  the 
jam,  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance — the  river 
apparently  clear  of  men,  and  the  greener,  invisible 
to  those  on  shore,  crawling  about  among  the  logs 
in  the  center  of  the  pile. 

It  was  the  moment  for  which  he  had  waited. 
Even  the  most  careful  planning  could  not  have 
created  a  situation  more  to  his  liking.  At  last 
the  greener  was  "his." 

S3 


194  The  Promise 

"There  she  goes!"  he  roared,  and  turning,  slid 
hastily  from  the  top  and  leaped  into  the  waiting 
bateau. 

"Let  'er  go!"  he  shouted. 

Fallon  and  Stromberg  leaped  forward  and  simul- 
taneously their  peaveys  bit  into  the  smaller  of  the 
two  key-logs. 

Both  big  men  heaved  and  strained,  once, 
twice,  thrice,  and  the  log  turned  slowly,  allowing 
the  end  of  the  other  to  pass. 

The  logs  trembled  for  an  instant,  then,  forced 
by  the  enormous  weight  behind  them,  shot  side- 
wise,  crossed  each  other,  and  pressed  the  tree- 
trunk  deep  under  the  boiling  water. 

A  mighty  quiver  ran  through  the  whole  mass  of 
the  jam,  it  balanced  for  a  shuddering  instant,  then 
with  a  mighty  rush,  let  go. 

Over  the  side  of  the  bateau  tumbled  Fallon  and 
Stromberg,  sprawling  on  the  bottom  at  the  feet 
of  the  boss,  while  the  man  in  the  bow  cast  off  the 
light  line. 

The  next  instant  the  heavy  boat  leaped  clear 
of  the  water,  overriding,  climbing  to  the  very 
summit  of  the  pounding,  plunging  logs  which 
threatened  each  moment  to  crush  and  batter 
through  her  sides  and  bottom. 

The  strong,  new  line  was  singing  taut  to  the  pull 
of  the  heavy  bateau  which  was  being  gradually 
crowded  shoreward  by  the  sweep  of  the  down- 
rushing  logs. 

Suddenly  a  mighty  shout  went  up  from  those 


The  Log  Jam  195 

on  the  bank.  The  men  in  the  bateau  looked,  and 
there,  almost  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  was  the 
greener  leaping  from  log  to  log  of  the  wildly 
pitching  jam. 

They  stared  horror-stricken,  with  tense, blanched 
faces.  Each  instant  seemed  as  if  it  must  be  his 
last,  for  they  knew  that  no  man  alive  could  hope 
to  keep  his  feet  in  the  mad  rush  and  sweep  of  the 
tumbling,  tossing  drive. 

Yet  the  greener  was  keeping  his  feet.  Time 
and  again  he  recovered  his  balance  when  death 
seemed  imminent,  and  amid  wild  shouts  and  yells 
of  encouragement,  climbing,  leaping,  running, 
stumbling,  he  worked  his  way  shoreward. 

He  was  almost  opposite  the  bateau  now,  and 
Stromberg,  hastily  coiling  the  light  line,  leaped 
into  the  bow.  Then,  just  when  it  seemed  possible 
the  greener  might  make  it,  a  huge  log  shot  upward 
from  the  depths  and  fell  with  a  crash  squarely 
across  the  log  upon  which  he  was  riding. 

A  cry  of  horror  went  up  from  half  a  hundred 
throats  as  the  man  was  thrown  high  in  the  air  and 
fell  back  into  the  foaming  white-water  that  showed 
here  and  here  through  the  thinning  tangle  of 
logs. 

The  next  instant  a  hundred  logs  passed  over 
the  spot,  drawn  down  by  the  suck  of  the  rapid. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


' '  THE-MAN-WHO-CANNOT-DIE ' ' 


During  the  infinitesimal  interim  between  the 
shock  which  hurled  him  into  the  air,  and  the 
closing  of  the  waters  of  Blood  River  over  his  head, 
Bill  Carmody's  brain  received  a  confusion  of 
flashlike  impressions:  The  futile  shouting  and 
waving  of  arms  upon  the  man-crowded  bank  of  the 
river ;  the  sudden  roar  of  the  rapid ;  the  tense  face 
of  Fallon ;  the  set  jaw  of  big  Stromberg  as  he  stood 
ready  to  shoot  out  the  line;  and,  above  all,  the 
leering   eyes   and   sneering   lips   of   Moncrossen. 

The  accident  happened  a  scant  sixty  feet  from 
the  side  of  the  straining  bateau,  and  the  features  of 
its  occupants  were  brought  out  strongly  in  the 
clear  morning  light. 

As  he  disappeared  beneath  the  surface  Bill  drew 
a  long  breath  and,  opening  his  eyes,  looked  up- 
ward. A  couple  of  swift  strokes  and  his  head 
emerged  where  a  small  patch  of  light  showed  an 
open  space. 

Reaching  out  he  grasped  the  rough  bark  of  a  log, 

shook  the  icy  water  from  his  eyes,  and  reviewed 

his  situation.     His  first  thought  was  of  the  bateau, 

196 


"  The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die  "     197 

but  a  shoreward  glance  revealed  only  the  swiftly 
gliding  trunks  of  the  forest  wall  with  the  bateau  and 
the  gesticulating  crowd  but  a  blur  in  the  distance. 

Near  him  floated  smoothly  a  huge  forked  trunk 
from  whose  prongs  protruded  the  stubs  of  lopped 
limbs.  Releasing  his  hold,  he  swam  toward  the 
big  log  which  floated  butt  foremost  among  its 
lesser  neighbors,  and,  diving,  came  up  between 
the  forks  and  gripped  firmly  a  limb  stub. 

On  every  hand  thousands  of  logs  floated  quietly, 
seemingly  motionless  as  logs  on  the  bosom  of  a 
mill-pond.  Only  the  rushing  walls  of  pine  on 
either  side  of  the  narrow  river-aisle  spoke  of  the 
terrific  speed  of  the  drive. 

Suddenly,  as  the  great  forked  log  swTept  around 
a  bend,  the  peril  of  his  situation  dawned  upon  him 
in  all  its  horror.  The  dull  roar  changed  to  a 
mighty  bellow  where  the  high-tossed  white-water 
leaped  high  among  the  submerged  rocks  of  the 
rapid,  and  above  its  thunder  sounded  the  heavy 
rumble  of  the  shock  and  grind  of  thousands  of 
wildly  pitching  logs. 

Only  for  a  moment  did  he  gaze  out  over  the 
heaving  forefront  of  the  drive.  His  log  shot  for- 
ward with  the  speed  of  a  bullet  as  it  was  seized 
in  the  grip  of  the  current;  the  next  moment  it 
leaped  clear  of  the  water  and  plunged  blindly  into 
the  whirling  tossing  pandemonium  of  the  white- 
water  gut. 

Bill  clung  desperately  to  the  stub,  expecting 
each  moment  to  be  his  last.     Close  in  the  fork  he 


i98  The  Promise 

was  protected  on  either  side  from  the  hammering 
blows  of  the  caroming  timber.  All  about  him  the 
air  was  filled  with  flying  logs  which  ripped  the  bark 
from  each  other's  sides,  while  the  shock  and  batter 
of  the  wild  stampede  threatened  momentarily 
to  tear  loose  his  grip. 

It  seemed  to  the  desperate  man  that  hours 
passed  as  he  clung  doggedly  to  the  huge  trunk 
which  trembled  and  shivered  and  plunged  wildly 
at  the  pounding  impact,  when  suddenly  it  brought 
up  against  a  half -submerged  rock,  stopped  dead, 
grated  and  jarred  at  the  crash  of  following  logs, 
poised  for  an  instant,  and  then  slanted  into  deeper 
water,  while  up  the  man's  leg  shot  a  twisting, 
wrenching  pain,  sickening — nerve-killing  in  its 
intensity. 

His  grasp  relaxed  and  his  whole  body  went  limp 
and  lifeless  as  the  big  log  overrode  the  last  rock 
barrier  and  was  caught  in  the  placid,  slowly 
revolving  water  of  a  shore  eddy. 

Half  concealed  by  the  naked  tangle  of  under- 
brush on  the  verge  of  a  low  bluff  where  the  rock- 
ribbed  rapid  broke  suddenly  into  smooth  water, 
an  old  Indian  woman  and  a  beautiful  half-breed 
girl  of  twenty  crouched  close,  watching  the  logs 
plunge  through  the  seething  white-water. 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  girl  shone  with  excitement, 
but  this  was  no  new  sight  to  the  eyes  of  the  older 
woman  who  in  times  past  had  watched  other  drives 
on  other  rivers.     As  she  looked  her  frown  deepened 


"The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die"     199 

and  the  hundred  little  weather  wrinkles  in  the 
tight-drawn  smoke-darkened  skin  showed  thin 
and  plain,  like  the  crisscross  cracks  in  old  leather. 

The  shriveled  lips  pressed  tight  against  the  hard, 
snag-studded  gums,  and  in  the  narrow,  lashless 
black  eyes  glowed  the  spark  of  undying  hate. 

The  sight  of  the  rushing  logs  brought  bitter 
memories.  These  were  things  of  the  white  man — 
and,  among  white  men,  only  Lacombie  was  good 
■ — and  Lacombie  was  dead. 

Young  Lacombie,  who  came  into  the  North  with 
a  song  on  his  lips  to  work  for  the  great  company 
whose  word  is  law,  and  whose  long  arm  is  destiny. 
Lacombie,  who,  in  the  long  ago  had  won  her, 
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  the  daughter  of  Kas-ka-tan,  the 
chief,  who  was  called  the  most  beautiful  maiden 
among  all  the  tribes  of  the  rivers. 

The  old  crone  drew  her  blanket  about  her  and 
shuddered  slightly  as  she  glanced  from  her  own 
withered,  clawlike  hands,  upon  which  dark  veins 
stood  out  like  the  cords  of  a  freight  bale,  to  the 
fresh  beauty  of  the  young  girl  at  her  side  who  gazed 
in  awed  fascination  upon  the  rush  of  the  pounding 
logs. 

Lacombie  was  dead,  and  Pierre,  his  son,  who 
was  her  first-born,  was  dead  also;  and  his  blood 
was  upon  the  head  of  the  men  of  the  logs.  For  he 
had  left  the  post  and  gone  among  white  men,  and 
she,  the  mother  who  bore  him,  and  Lacombie,  his 
father,  had  seen  him  no  more. 

Years    slipped    by,    bringing    other    children; 


2oo  The  Promise 

Jacques,  in  whom  the  white  blood  of  Lacombie 
was  lost  in  the  blending,  and  the  girl  who  crouched 
at  her  side. 

Long  after,  from  the  lips  of  a  passing  Bois  brille, 
she  heard  the  story  of  Pierre's  death — how,  crazed 
by  whisky  and  the  taunts  of  a  drunken  companion, 
he  had  leaped  upon  a  passing  log  and  plunged  into 
the  foaming  white  chute  of  the  dreaded  Saw  Tooth 
rapid  through  which  no  man  had  passed  and 
lived. 

Sacre.  He  was  brave!  For  he  came  nearly  to 
the  end  of  the  rapid,  standing  upon  his  log — but, 
only  nearly  to  the  end — for  there  he  was  dashed 
and  broken  upon  the  rocks  in  the  swirl  of  the 
leaping  white-water,  and  here  was  she,  his  mother, 
gazing  at  other  logs  in  the  rush  of  other  rapids. 

She  started  at  the  sudden  clutch  at  her  blanket 
and  glanced  sharply  at  the  girl  who  strained  for- 
ward upon  the  very  edge  of  the  bluff  and  stared, 
not  at  the  rapid,  but  straight  downward  where  a 
few  logs  revolved  lazily  in  the  grip  of  the  shore 
eddy. 

The  girl  was  pointing  excitedly  with  a  tapering 
white-brown  finger  to  the  fork  of  a  great  log  where, 
caught  on  a  sharp  limb  stub,  was  the  striped  sleeve 
of  a  mackinaw,  from  the  end  of  which  protruded 
a  hand,  while  after  the  log,  trailing  sluggishly  in 
the  V  of  the  fork,  was  the  lifeless  body  of  a  man. 

As  she  looked  a  light  of  exultation  gleamed  in  the 
sharp  old  eyes.  Here  was  vengeance!  For  the 
life  of  her  son — the  life  of  a  white  man. 


"The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die"     201 

She  noted  with  satisfaction  that  the  body  was 
that  of  a  large  man.  It  was  fitting  so.  For  her 
Pierre  had  been  tall,  and  broad,  and  strong — she 
would  have  been  disappointed  in  the  meaner  price 
of  a  small  man's  life. 

Suddenly  she  leaped  to  her  feet  and  ran  swiftly 
along  the  bluff  seeking  a  place  to  descend. 

Even  among  the  men  of  the  logs,  who  are  bad, 
one  man  stands  alone  as  the  archfiend  of  them 
all. 

And  now — it  is  possible,  for  he  is  a  big  man — 
she,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  the  mother  of  Pierre  and  of 
Jeanne,  maybe  is  permitted  to  stoop  close  and 
breathe  upon  the  dead  face  of  this  man  the  weird 
curse  of  the  barren  lands — almost  forgotten,  now, 
even  among  her  own  people — the  blighting  curse 
of  the  "  Yaga  Tahi" 

In  the  telling,  the  Bois  bride  had  mentioned  the 
name  of  the  drunken  lumber-jack  who  had  baited 
her  Pierre  to  his  death,  and  in  the  old  woman's 
brain  the  name  of  Moncrossen  was  the  symbol  of 
all  black  deviltry. 

After  the  death  of  Lacombie,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta 
had  stolen  Jeanne  from  the  mission  that  she  might 
forget  the  ways  of  the  white  man,  and  returned  to 
her  people. 

Jeanne,  whose  soft  skin,  beneath  the  sun  tan, 
was  the  white  skin  of  Lacombie,  and  who  was  the 
most  beautiful  among  all  the  women  of  the  North, 
with  her  straight,  lithe  body,  and  dark,  mysterious 
eyes — eyes  which,  in  color,  were  the  eyes  of  the 


202  The  Promise 

wood  folk,  but  in  whose  baffling,  compelling  depths 
slumbered  the  secrets  of  an  alien  race. 

Jacques,  she  could  understand,  for  in  thought 
and  deed  and  body  he  was  Indian — a  whelp  of  her 
own  breed.  But  the  girl,  she  did  not  understand, 
and  her  love  for  her  was  the  idolatrous  love  with 
which  she  had  loved  Lacombie. 

Through  many  lean  years  they  lived  among  the 
tepees  of  the  Indians,  but,  of  late,  they  had  come 
to  the  lodge  of  Jacques,  who  had  become  a  trapper 
and  guide. 

His  lodge,  of  necessity,  must  be  pitched  not  too 
far  from  the  lumber  camps  of  the  white  men,  whose 
laws  make  killing  deer  in  winter  a  crime — and  pay 
liberally  for  fresh  venison. 

Swiftly  she  descended  a  short  slope  of  the  bluff, 
uttering  quick,  low  whines  of  anticipation.  For 
Jacques,  Blood  River  Jack  he  was  called  by  the 
white  men,  had  told  her  that  Moncrossen  was  boss 
of  the  camp  at  the  head  of  the  rapid. 

All  through  the  winter  she  had  kept  the  girl 
continually  within  her  sight,  for  she  remembered 
the  previous  winter  when  this  same  Moncrossen 
had  accidentally  come  upon  their  lodge  on  the 
south  fork  of  Broken  Knee,  and  the  look  in  his 
eyes  as  he  gazed  upon  the  beauty  of  Jeanne. 

vShe  remembered  the  events  that  followed  when 
Jacques  was  paid  liberally  by  the  boss  to  make  a 
midwinter  journey  to  the  railroad,  and  the  low 
sound  in  the  night  when  she  awakened  to  find  the 
girl  struggling  in  the  bear-like  grasp  of  the  huge 


"  The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die  "     203 

lumberjack,  and  how  she  fought  him  off  in  the 
darkness  with  a  hatchet  while  Jeanne  fled  shriek- 
ing into  the  timber. 

Now  she  stood  upon  the  brink,  and  beside  her 
stood  the  girl  in  whose  dark  eyes  flashed  a  primitive 
tiger-hate — for  she,  too,  remembered  the  terror  of 
that  night  on  the  south  fork  of  Broken  Knee. 

And,  although  she  knew  nothing  of  the  wild 
death-curse  of  the  Yaga  Tah,  she  could  at  least 
stoop  and  spit  upon  the  dead  face  of  the  one  worst 
white  man. 

Almost  touching  their  feet  lapped  the  brown, 
bubble-dotted  waters  of  the  river,  and  close  in, 
at  a  hand's  reach  from  the  bank,  the  logs  passed 
sluggishly  in  the  slow  swing  of  the  shore  eddy. 

The  eyes  of  the  pair  focused  in  intense  eagerness 
upon  the  great  forked  log  which  poised  uncertainly 
at  the  outer  edge  of  the  whirl. 

For  a  breathless  moment  they  watched  while  it 
seemed  that  the  great  log  with  its  gruesome  freight 
must  be  swept  out  into  the  main  current  of  the 
stream.  Sluggishly  it  revolved,  as  upon  an  axis, 
and  then,  in  the  grip  of  a  random  cross-current, 
swung  heavily  shoreward. 

The  form  of  the  old  woman  bent  forward  and, 
as  the  log  drifted  slowly  past,  a  talon-like  hand 
shot  out  and  fastened  upon  the  bit  of  striped 
cloth,  and  the  next  moment  the  two  were  tugging 
and  hauling  in  their  efforts  to  drag  the  limp  body 
clear  of  the  brown  waters. 

Seizing  upon  the  heavy  calked  boots  they  worked 


204  The  Promise 

the  body  inch  by  inch  up  the  steep  slope,  and  the 
dry  lips  of  the  old  squaw  curled  in  a  snaggy  grin 
as  she  noted  the  shattered  leg  and  the  toe  of  the 
boot  twisted  backward — a  grin  that  deepened  into 
a  grimace  of  sardonic  cruelty  at  the  feel  of  the 
grating  rasp  of  the  shattered  bone  ends. 

After  frequent  pauses  they  returned  to  their 
task,  and  at  each  jerk  water  gushed  from  the  man's 
wide-sprung  jaws. 

At  last,  panting  with  exertion,  they  gained  the 
top  of  the  bank.  With  glittering  eyes  the  old 
squaw  stooped  swiftly  and  turned  the  body  upon 
its  back.  The  unseeing  eyes  stared  upward,  water 
ceased  to  gush  from  the  open  mouth,  and  the  lolling 
tongue  settled  flabbily  between  the  mud-smeared 
lips. 

A  cry  of  savage  disappointment  escaped  her,  for 
the  face  into  which  she  looked  was  not  the  face  of 
Moncrossen ! 

The  curse  of  the  Yaga  Tah  died  upon  her  lips, 
for  this  curse  may  be  breathed  but  once  in  a  life- 
time, and  if,  as  Father  Magnus  said,  "God  is 
good,"  she  might  yet  live  to  gaze  into  the  dead 
face  of  the  one  worst  white  man,  and  chant  the 
curse  of  the  Yaga  Tah. 

So  she  stifled  the  curse  and  contented  herself 
with  gloating  over  the  battered  body  of  the  man  of 
logs  which  the  churning  white-water  of  the  Blood 
River  rapid  had  tossed  at  her  feet,  even  as  the 
seething  white-water  of  the  Saw  Tooth  had  tossed 
the  body  of  her  Pierre  at  the  feet  of  the  white  men. 


"  The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die  "     205 

At  her  side  the  girl  gazed  curiously  at  the 
exanimate  form.  In  her  heart  was  no  bitter- 
ness against  the  people  of  her  father — no  damn- 
ing of  the  breed  for  the  sins  of  the  individual. 

Lacombie,  she  knew,  was  good — the  one  good 
white  man — old  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  called  him.  And 
Moncrossen  was  bad. 

Between  these  two  extremes  were  the  unnum- 
bered millions  of  whom  Lacombie  used  to  tell 
her  in  the  long  Northern  twilight,  when,  as  a  little 
girl,  she  would  creep  upon  his  knees  as  he  sat 
before  the  door  of  the  log  trading-post,  and  his 
arms  would  steal  about  her,  and  a  far-away  look 
would  creep  into  his  blue  eyes. 

Often  he  spoke  of  beautiful  women;  of  mighty 
tepees  of  stone;  of  bridges  of  iron,  and  of  trains 
which  rushed  along  the  iron  trails  at  the  speed  of 
the  flight  of  a  bird,  and  spat  fire  and  smoke,  and 
whose  voice  shrieked  louder  than  the  mate-call 
of  the  loup-cervier. 

And  she  would  listen,  round-eyed,  until  the 
little  head  would  droop  slowly  against  the  great 
chest,  and  the  words  would  rumble  softly  and 
blend  bewilderingly  with  the  wheezing  of  the 
black  pipe  and  the  strong  smell  of  rank  tobacco. 

Sometimes  she  would  wake  up  with  a  start 
to  hear  more,  and  it  would  be  morning,  and  she 
would  be  between  the  blankets  in  her  own  little 
bunk,  and  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  would  come  and  laugh, 
and  pinch  her  fat  legs,  and  croon  strange  Indian 
songs  in  low  minor  keys. 


206  The  Promise 

There  were  stories,  too;  stories  of  Kas-ka-tan, 
the  chief;  of  the  Crazy  Man  of  the  Berry  Moon;  of 
Zuk,  the  lost  hunter ;  of  the  Maiden  of  the  Snows, 
whose  heart  was  of  ice,  and  whose  voice  was  the 
splashing  of  tiny  waters,  and  of  the  mighty  Fire 
God,  whose  breath  alone  could  move  the  heart  of 
the  Maiden  of  the  Snows,  so  that  in  the  springtime 
when  he  spoke  to  her  of  love,  her  laughter  was 
heard  in  the  tiny  rills  of  the  woodland. 

But  it  was  of  Lacombie's  tales  she  thought 
most.  Only  she  could  never  stay  awake  to  hear 
the  end,  and  the  next  night  there  would  be  other 
tales  of  other  wonders,  and  all  without  end. 

So  in  her  heart  grew  a  strange  unrest,  a  wild, 
irrepressible  longing  to  see  these  things  in  the 
wonderful  country  of  the  white  men,  to  whom, 
in  time  of  sickness  and  death,  came  smiling,  round- 
faced  priests,  with  long  black  clothes  and  many 
buttons;  instead  of  hideous  medicine-men,  with 
painted  faces  and  strings  of  teeth  and  shriveled 
claws. 

As  she  gazed  upon  the  form  of  the  white  man,  a 
soft  wistfulness  stole  into  her  eyes.  Unconsciously, 
she  drew  closer,  and  the  next  instant  threw  her- 
self upon  the  body,  tearing  frantically  at  the  shirt- 
front. 

Sounded  the  tiny  popping  of  buttons  and  the 
smooth  rip  of  flannel,  and  a  small,  white-brown 
hand  slipped  beneath  the  tattered  cloth  and 
pressed  tight  against  the  white  skin  of  the  mighty 
chest. 


"  The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die  "     207 

For  a  long  moment  it  rested  there  while  the  old 
woman  looked  on  in  wonder.  Then  the  girl 
faced  her,   speaking  rapidly,  with  shining  eyes? 

"He  is  not  dead!"  she  gasped.  "There  is  life 
in  the  heart  that  moves !  See !  It  is  not  the  face 
of  Moncrossen,  but  of  the  great  chechako  of  whom 
Jacques  told  us.  The  man  who  is  hated  of  Mon- 
crossen. Who  killed  Diablesse,  the  loup-garou, 
with  a  knife. 

"The  man  whom  Creed  fears,  and  of  whom 
he  spoke  the  night  he  came  whining  to  the  tepee 
with  his  heart  turned  to  water  within  him,  and 
told  Jacques  of  how  this  man  lay  helpless  in  the 
flames  of  the  burning  shack,  and  the  next  day 
walked  unscorched  into  the  store  at  Hilarity. 

"He  is  The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die.  Quick! 
Help  me,  and  together  we  will  bring  him  to  life!'* 

The  old  squaw  held  aloof,  scowling. 

"Lacombie  is  dead,"  she  muttered.  "There 
is  no  good  white  man.  The  men  of  the  logs  are 
bad.  Where  is  Pierre,  thy  brother?  And  where 
are  the  fathers  of  the  light-skinned  breeds  of  the 
rivers? 

"Who  bring  sorrow  and  death  among  the 
women  of  my  people?  WTience  comes  the  whisky 
that  is  the  curse  of  the  red  men  of  the  North? 
Would  you  warm  the  rattlesnake  in  your  bosom, 
to  die  from  its  poisoned  tooth?  All  men  die! 
Lacombie,  who  was  good,  is  dead.  And  this  one 
who,  being  a  man  of  logs,  is  bad,  will  die  also. 
Come  away  while  yet  there  is  time!" 


208  The  Promise 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet  and,  with  uplifted 
hand,  faced  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  and  in  her  eyes 
was  the  compelling  light  of  prophecy. 

"Is  it  not  enough,  O  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,"  she 
cried,  "that  Moncrossen,  the  evil  one,  hates  this 
man?  He  is  M's'u  Bill,  The-Man-Who-Cannot- 
Die.  Neither  by  wolves  nor  fire  nor  water  can  he 
die,  nor  will  he  be  killed  in  the  fighting  of  men. 
But  one  day  he  will  kill  Moncrossen,  that  thou 
mayest  lay  upon  the  head  of  the  evil  one  the  black 
curse  of  the  Yaga  Tah !  And  then  will  the  blood 
of  Pierre,  thy  son,  be  avenged. " 

At  the  words,  the  smoldering  black  eye*  of 
the  old  squaw  wavered,  they  swept  the  limp  form 
upon  the  ground,  and  returned  a  long,  searching 
gaze  into  the  blazing  eyes  of  the  girl.  With  a 
low  guttural  throat-sound,  she  dropped  to  her 
knees,  and  together  they  bent  to  their  task.  At 
the  end  of  an  hour  the  breath  fluttered  irregularly 
between  the  bearded  lips  and  the  gray  eyes  closed 
of  their  own  accord. 

As  the  two  women  rested,  the  sound  of  shouting 
voices  was  borne  to  their  ears.  The  old  woman 
started,  listening. 

"Back  from  the  river!"  she  cried,  "soon  will 
come  men  who,  with  long,  sharp  poles,  will  push 
out  the  logs  from  the  eddies,  and  from  the  still 
waters  of  the  bends,  and,  should  the  men  of  Mon- 
crossen find  this  man  they  will  kill  him — for  all 
men  die!     Did  not  Lacombie  die?" 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

MAN  OR  TOY  MAN? 

The  newspaper  prediction  of  the  forthcoming 
announcement  of  the  engagement  of  Miss  Ethel 
Manton  and  Gregory  St.  Ledger  was  published, 
not  without  color  of  authority,  nor  was  it  entirely 
out  of  keeping  with  appearances. 

As  the  gay  calendar  of  society's  romp  and  rout 
drew  toward  its  close,  the  names  of  these  two 
became  more  and  more  intimately  associated.  It 
was  an  association  assiduously  cultivated  by 
young  St.  Ledger,  and  earnestly  fostered  and 
abetted  by  the  St.  Ledger  sisters  who,  fluttering 
uncertainly  upon  the  outermost  rim  of  the  circle 
immediately  surrounding  society's  innermost 
shrine,  realized  that  the  linking  of  the  Manton 
name  with  the  newer  name  of  St.  Ledger,  would 
prove  an  open  sesame  to  the  half -closed  doors  of 
the  Knickerbockers. 

Despite  two  years'  residence  in  the  most  expen- 
sive suite  of  a  most  expensive  hotel,  nobody  seemed 
to  know  much  about  the  St.  Ledgers.  It  was  an 
accepted  fact  that  they  were  islanders  from  some- 
where, variously  stated  to  be  Jamaica,  The  Isle 

14  209 


210  The  Promise 

of  Pines,  and  Barbadoes,  whose  wealth  was  founded 
upon  sugar,  and  appeared  limitless. 

St.  Ledger  pere,  tall  and  saturnine,  divided  his 
time  about  equally  between  New  York  and  "the 
islands." 

The  two  girls,  ravishingly  beautiful  in  their 
dark,  semi-mysterious  way,  had  been  brought  from 
some  out-of-the-way  French  convent  to  the  life 
of  the  great  city,  where  to  gain  entree  into  society's 
holy  of  holies  became  a  fetish  above  their  gods. 

There  was  no  mere  St.  Ledger,  and  vague 
whisperings  passed  back  and  forth  between  cei  tain 
bleached  out,  flat-chested  virgins,  whose  forgotten 
youth  and  beauty  were  things  long  past,  but  whose 
tenure  upon  society  was  as  firm  and  unassailable 
as  Plymouth  Rock  and  the  silver  leg  of  Peter 
Stuyvesant  could   make  it. 

It  was  hinted  that  the  high-piled  tresses  of  the 
sisters  matched  too  closely  the  hue  of  the  raven's 
wing,  and  that  the  much  admired  "waves"  if 
left  to  themselves  would  resolve  into  decided 
"kinks." 

They  were  guarded  whisperings,  however,  non- 
committal, and  so  worded  that  a  triumphantly 
blazoned  "I  told  you  so!"  or  a  depreciatory  and 
horrified:  "You  misunderstood  me,  dear,"  hung 
upon  the  pending  verdict  of  the  powers  that  be. 

Gregory  St.  Ledger,  in  so  far  as  any  one  knew, 
was  neither  liked  nor  disliked  among  men;  being 
of  the  sort  who  enjoy  watching  games  of  tennis 
and,    during   the   later  hours  of  the   afternoon, 


Man  or  Toy  Man?  211 

drive  pampered  Pekingese  about  the  streets  in 
silver-mounted  electrics. 

He  enjoyed,  also,  a  baby-blue  reputation  which 
successfully  cloaked  certain  spots  of  pale  cerise  in 
his  rather  negligible  character. 

He  smoked  innumerable  scented  cigarettes, 
gold  as  to  tip  and  monogram,  which  he  selected 
with  ostentatious  unostentation  from  a  heavy 
gold  case  liberally  bestudded  with  rubies  and 
diamonds. 

He  viewed  events  calmly  through  a  life-size 
monocle,  was  London  tailored,  Paris  shod,  and 
New  York  manicured;  and  carried  an  embossed 
leather  check-book,  whose  detachable  pink  slips 
proved  a  potent  safety  factor  against  undue 
increment  of  the  St.  Ledger  exchequer. 

Thus  equipped,  and  for  reasons  of  family, 
young  St.  Ledger  decided  to  marry  Ethel  Man  ton; 
and  to  this  end  he  devoted  himself  persistently 
and  insidiously,  but  with  the  inborn  patience  and 
diplomacy  of  the  South  Islander. 

Bill  Carmody  he  hated  with  the  snakelike  hate 
of  little  men,  but  shrewdly  perceiving  that  the  girl 
held  more  than  a  friendly  regard  for  him,  enthusi- 
astically sang  his  praises  in  her  ears;  praises  that, 
somehow,  always  left  her  with  a  strange  smother- 
ing sensation  about  the  heart  and  a  dull  resentment 
of  the  fact  that  she  cared. 

With  the  disappearance  of  young  Carmody, 
St.  Ledger  redoubled  his  attentions.  The  young 
man  found  it  much  easier  than  did  his  sisters  to  be 


2-T.2  The  Promise 

numbered  "among  those  present"  at  the  smart 
functions  of  the  elite. 

When  New  York  shivered  in  the  first  throes  of 
winter,  a  well-planned  cruise  in  mild  waters  under 
soft  skies  on  board  the  lavishly  appointed  and 
bountifully  supplied  St.  Ledger  yacht,  whose 
sailing  list  included  a  carefully  selected  and  undeni- 
ably congenial  party  of  guests,  worked  wonders 
in  the  matter  of  St.  Ledger's  social  aspirations. 

At  the  clubs,  substantial  and  easily  forgotten 
loans  to  members  of  the  embarrassed  elect, 
coupled  with  vague  hints,  rarely  failed  to  pay  divi- 
dends in  the  form  of  invitations  to  ultra-exclusive 
affaires. 

At  the  hostelry  the  St.  Ledger  soirees,  if  so 
glitteringly  bizarre  as  to  draw  high-browed  frowns 
from  the  more  reserved  and  staid  of  the  thinning 
old  guard  of  ancestor-worshipers,  nevertheless, were 
enthusiastically  hailed  and  eagerly  attended  by 
the  younger  set,  and  played  no  small  part  in  the 
insinuation  of  "those  St.  Ledgers"  into  the  realms 
of  the  anointed. 

Thus  the  winter  wore  away,  and,  at  all  times  and 
in  all  places  Gregory  St.  Ledger  appeared  as  the 
devoted  sat  elite  of  Ethel  Manton,  who  entered  the 
social  melee  without  enthusiasm,  but  with  dogged 
determination  to  let  the  world  see  that  the  disap- 
pearance of  Bill  Carmody  affected  her  not  at  all. 

She  tolerated  St.  Ledger,  even  encouraged  him, 
for  he  amused  and  offered  a  welcome  diversion  for 
her  thoughts. 


Man  or  Toy  Man?  213 

She  was  a  girl  of  moods  whose  imagination 
carried  her  into  far  places  in  the  picturing  of  a 
man — her  man — big,  and  strong,  and  clean; 
fighting  bare-fisted  among  men  for  his  place  in 
the  world,  and  alone  conquering  the  secret  devil 
of  desire  that  he  might  claim  the  right  to  her  love. 

Then  it  was,  curled  up  in  the  big  armchair  in 
the  library,  the  blue  eyes  would  glow  softly  and 
tenderly  in  the  flare  of  the  flickering  firelight,  and 
between  parted  lips  the  warm  breath  would  come 
and  go  in  short  stabbing  whispers  to  the  quick 
rise  and  fall  of  the  rounded  bosom,  and  the  little 
fists  would  clench  white  in  the  tense  gladness 
of  it. 

But  there  were  other  times — times  when  the 
dancing  wall-shadows  were  dark  specters  of  ill- 
omen  gloating  ghoulishly  before  her  horror- 
widened  eyes  as  her  brain  conjured  the  picture 
of  the  man — battered,  broken,  helpless,  with 
bloated,  sottish  features,  and  bleared  eyes — a 
beaten  man  drifting  heedlessly,  hopelessly,  furtive- 
eyed,  away  from  his  standards' — and  from  her. 

At  such  times  the  breath  would  flutter  uncer- 
tainly between  cold,  bloodless  lips,  and  the  marble 
whiteness  of  her  face  became  a  pallid  death  mask 
of  despair. 

Always  in  extremes  she  pictured  him,  for, 
knowing  the  man  as  she  knew  him — the  bigness  of 
him — the  relentless  dynamic  man-power  of  his 
being,  she  knew  that  with  him  there  would  be  no 
half-way  measure — no  median  line  of  indifferent 


214  The  Promise 

achievement  which  should  stand  for  neither  the 
good  nor  the  bad  among  men. 

Here  was  no  Tomlinson  whose  little  sins  and  pas- 
sive virtues  became  the  jest  of  the  gods;  but  a  man 
who  in  the  final  accounting  would  stand  four-square 
upon  the  merit  of  his  works,  and  in  the  might -of 
their  right  or  wrong,  accept  fearlessly  his  reward. 

The  days  dragged  into  weeks  and  the  weeks 
into  months — empty  months  to  the  heart  of  the 
girl  who  waited,  dreading,  yet  hoping  for  word 
from  the  man  she  loved.  Yet  knowing,  deep 
down  in  her  heart,  she  would  hear  no  word. 

He  would  come  to  her — would  answer  the  call 
of  her  great  love — would  beat  down  the  barriers 
and  in  the  flush  of  victory  would  claim  her  as 
his  own ;  or,  in  the  everlasting  silence  of  the  weird 
realm   of   missing   men,    be   lost   to   her  forever. 

Daily  she  scanned  the  newspapers.  Not  front 
pages  whose  glaring  headlines  flaunted  world- 
rumblings,  politics,  and  the  illness  of  rich  men's 
dogs,  but  tiny  cable-whispers  from  places  far 
from  the  beaten  track,  places  forgotten  or  un- 
known, whose  very  names  breathed  mystery; 
whispers  that  hinted  briefly  of  life-tragedies,  of 
action  and  the  unsung  deeds  of  men. 

And  as  she  read,  she  mused. 

A  tramp  steamer  dashed  upon  the  saw-tooth 
rocks  off  Sarawak.  Thirty  perish — seven  saved 
■ — no  names.     "Where  is  Sarawak?     Is  it  possible 

that  he ?" 

Four  sailors  killed  in  the  rescue  of  a  girl  from  a 


Man  or  Toy  Man?  215 

dive  in  Singapore.  Investigation  ordered — no 
names.     "He  would  have  done  that." 

The  rum-sodden  body  of  a  man,  presumably 
a  derelict  American,  picked  up  on  the  bund  at 
Papiete;  no  marks  of  identification  save  the 
tightly  clutched  photograph  of  a  well-dressed 
young  woman.  "Had  he  given  up  the  fight? 
And  was  this  the  end?" 

Eight  revolutionist  prisoners  taken  by  General 
Orotho  in  yesterday's  battle  were  shot  at  sunrise 
this  morning  before  the  prison  wall  of  Managua. 

One,  an  American,  faced  the  firing  squad  with 
a  laugh,  and  the  next  instant  pitched  forward,  his 
body  riddled  with  bullets.  "He  would  have 
laughed!  Would  have  played  gladly  the  game 
with  death  and,  losing — laughed!" 

Each  day  she  read  the  little  lines  of  the  doings 
of  men;  unnamed  adventurers  whose  deeds  were 
virile  deeds;  rough  men,  from  whose  contaminat- 
ing touch  society  gathers  up  her  silken  skirts  and 
passes  by  upon  the  other  side;  unlovely  men, 
rolled-sleeved  and  open-throated,  deep-seamed  of 
face,  and  richly  weather-tanned  of  arm,  who  tread 
roughshod  the  laws  of  little  right  and  wrong ;  who 
drink  red  liquor  and  swear  lurid  oaths  and  loud; 
but  who,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  redden  the  gutters 
of  Singapore  with  their  hearts'  blood  in  the  snatch- 
ing of  a  young  girl  from  danger. 

And  in  the  reading  there  grew  up  in  her  heart  a 
mighty  respect  for  these  men,  for,  in  the  analysis 
of  their  deeds,  the  beam  swayed  strongly  against 


216  The  Promise 

the  measure  of  the  world  in  its  balance  of  good  and 
harm. 

Many  times  her  feet  carried  her  into  strange 
streets  among  strange  people,  where  the  reek  of 
shipping  became  incense  to  her  nostrils,  and  hairy- 
chested  men  of  many  ports  stared  boldly  into  her 
face  and,  reading  her  aright,  made  room  with 
deference. 

Upon  an  evening  just  before  the  annual  surcease 
of  frivolity,  Gregory  St.  Ledger  called  at  the 
Manton  home  and,  finding  Ethel  alone  in  the 
library,  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 

Because  it  was  an  evening  of  her  blackest  mood 
she  neither  refused  nor  accepted  him,  but  put  him 
off  for  a  year  on  the  ground  that  she  did  not  know 
her  mind. 

In  vain  he  protested,  arguing  the  power  and 
prestige  of  the  St.  Ledger  millions,  and  in  the  end 
departed  to  seek  out  an  acquaintance  who  had  to 
do  with  a  blatant  Sunday  newspaper. 

During  the  interview  that  followed,  in  the 
course  of  which  the  reporter  ordered  and  St.  Ledger 
paid  for  many  tall  drinks  of  intricate  concoction, 
the  gilded  youth  made  no  statement  of  fact,  but 
the  impression  he  managed  to  convey  furnished  the 
theme  for  the  news  story  whose  headlines  seared 
into  Bill  Carmody's  soul  to  the  crashing  of  his 
tenets  and  gods. 

In  the  library  the  girl  sat  far  into  the  night 
and  thought  of  the  man  who  had  won  her  heart  and 
of  the  toy  man  who  would  buy  her  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

JEANNE 

Bill  Carmody  opened  his  eyes.  A  weird  dark- 
ness surrounded  him  through  which  dancing  half- 
lights  played  upon  a  close-thrown  screen.  Dully 
he  watched  the  grotesque  flickering  of  lights  and 
shadows.  He  was  not  surprised — not  even  curi- 
ous. Nothing  mattered' — nothing  save  the  terri- 
ble pain  in  his  head  and  the  racking  ache  of  the 
muscles  of  his  body.  His  skin  felt  hot  and  drawn 
and  he  gasped  for  air.  A  great  weight  seemed 
pressing  upon  him,  and  when  he  tried  to  fill  his 
bursting  lungs  instead  of  great  drafts  of  cooling 
air,  hot,  stabbing  pains  shot  through  his  chest  and 
he  groaned  aloud  at  the  hurt  of  it. 

He  turned  his  aching  body,  wincing  at  the  move- 
ment, and  stared  dully  through  a  low  aperture  in 
the  encircling  screen.  Beyond,  in  another  world, 
it  seemed,  a  tiny  fire  flickered  under  a  suspended 
iron  kettle. 

Near  the  fire  a  blanketed  form  sat  motionless 

with  knees  tight-hugged  against  shrunken  breast. 

Upon  the  blanket-covered  knees  rested  the  angular 

chin  of  a  dark-skinned,  leathern  face,  upon  which 

217 


218  The  Promise 

the  firelight  played  fitfully,  and  beneath  a  tangled 
mop  of  graying  hair  two  eyes  flashed  and  dulled  like 
black  opals. 

He  glanced  upward  and  realized  that  the  close- 
thrown  screen,  upon  which  danced  the  lights  and 
shadows,  was  the  smoke-blackened  canvas  of  a 
tepee,  loosely  stretched  upon  its  slanting  lodge- 
poles. 

Again  he  attempted  to  fill  his  congested  lungs 
with  cool,  sweet  air,  and  again  the  attempt  ended 
in  a  groan  and  he  relaxed,  gasping,  while  upon 
his  forehead  the  cold  sweat  stood  in  clammy 
beads. 

Yet  his  head  was  burning  hot,  and  the  blankets 
which  covered  him  were  blankets  of  fire.  Suddenly 
it  dawned  upon  him  that  this  was  a  hideous  night- 
mare. 

The  blackened  lodge  with  its  terrifying  shadow- 
pictures  that  flickered  and  faded  and  flickered 
again;  the  old  crone  by  the  fire;  the  pain  in  his 
head,  and  the  hot  aches  of  his  body,  were  horrid 
brain  fancies. 

With  a  mighty  effort  he  would  break  the  spell, 
and  from  the  bunk  below  the  rich  brogue  of  Fallon 
would  "bawl  him  out"  for  his  restlessness — good 
old  Fallon! 

Vainly  he  attempted  to  marshal  his  scattered 
wits,  and  break  the  spell  of  the  torturing  brain 
picture.  The  shadows  above  him  took  on  weird 
shapes;  grinning  faces  with  tangled  gray  locks; 
long  snakelike  bodies,  and  tails  of  red  and  yellow 


Jeanne  219 

light  twined  and  writhed  sinuously  about  the  beau- 
tiful face  of  a  girl. 

How  real — how  distinct  in  the  half-light,  was 
the  face  beneath  the  mass  of  gleaming  black  hair. 
And  eyes!  Dark,  serious  eyes,  into  which  one 
might  gaze  far  into  mysterious  depths — soft,  rest- 
ful eyes,  thought  the  man  as  he  stared  upward 
into  the  phantom  face. 

From  the  curve  of  the  parted  red  lips  the  per- 
fect teeth  flashed  whitely,  and  from  the  delicately 
turned  chin  the  soft  full-throated  neck  swept 
beneath  the  open  throat  of  the  loose-fitting  buck- 
skin hunting  shirt  whose  deep  fringed  trimmings 
only  half-concealed  the  rich  lines  of  a  rounded 
bosom. 

The  man  remained  motionless,  fearing  to  move 
lest  the  vision  fade  and  the  harsh  voice  of  Fallon 
blare  out  from  below.  "Damn  Fallon!"  he  mut- 
tered, and  then  the  pictured  lips  moved  and  in  his 
ears  was  the  soft,  sweet  sound  of  a  voice. 

The  writhing  snakes  with  the  shining  tails 
resolved  into  flickering  wall-shadows  which  danced 
lightly  among  the  slanting  lodge -poles.  But  the 
dream-face  did  not  fade,  the  dream-eyes  gazed 
softly  into  his,  the  dream-lips  moved,  and  the  low 
sound  of  the  dream-voice  was  music  to  his  ears. 

"You  are  sick,"  the  voice  said;  "you  are  in 
pain. "     Bill's  throat  was  dry  with  a  burning  thirst. 

"Water ! "  he  gasped,  and  the  word  rasped  harsh. 

The  girl  reached  into  the  shadows  and  a  tiny 
white-brown  hand  appeared  holding  a  dripping  tin 


220  The  Promise 

cup.  She  bent  closer  and  the  next  instant  the 
man's  burning  cheek  was  pillowed  against  the 
soft  coolness  of  her  bared  arm  and  his  head  was 
raised  from  the  blanket  while  the  tiny  white-brown 
hand  held  the  tin  cup  to  his  lips. 

With  the  life-giving  draft  the  man's  brain  cleared 
and  he  smiled  into  the  eyes  of  his  dream-girl.  Her 
lips  returned  the  smile  and  there  was  a  movement 
of  the  rounded  arm  that  pillowed  his  head. 

"No!  No!"  he  whispered,  and  pressed  his  cheek 
closer  against  the  soft,  bare  flesh.  The  arm  was 
not  withdrawn,  the  liquid  eyes  gazed  for  a  moment 
into  his  and  were  veiled  by  the  swift  downsweep 
of  the  long,  dark  lashes. 

In  the  silence,  a  little  white-brown  hand  strayed 
over  his  face  and  rested  with  delicious  coolness 
upon  the  fevered  brow.  Bill's  eyes  closed  and  for 
blissful  eons  he  lay,  while  in  all  the  world  was  no 
such  thing  as  pain — only  the  sweet,  restful  peace 
of  Dreamland. 

Unconsciously  his  lips  pressed  close  against  the 
softness  of  her  arm,  and  at  their  touch  the  arm 
trembled,  and  from  far  away  came  the  quick,  sib- 
ilant gasp  of  an  indrawn  breath. 

The  arm  pressed  closer,the  tapering  fingers  of  the 
little  hand  strayed  caressingly  through  the  tangled 
curls  of  his  hair,  and  Bill  Carmody  slipped  silently 
into  the  quiet  of  oblivion. 

The  fire  under  the  iron  kettle  died  down,  and 
the  shadows  faded  from  the  walls  of  the  tepee. 
Inside,  the  girl  sat  far  into  the  night,  and  the 


Jeanne  221 

mystery  of  the  dark  eyes  deepened  as  they  gazed 
into  the  bearded  face  close  pillowed  against  her 
arm. 

By  the  dying  fire  the  old  crone  drew  her  blanket 
more  closely  about  her  and  glowered  into  the  red 
embers  as  her  beady,  black  eyes  shot  keen  glances 
toward  the  motionless  forms  in  the  blackness 
beyond  the  open  flap  of  the  tepee. 

On  Blood  River  the  logs  floated  steadily  mill- 
ward,  the  bateau  followed  the  drive,  and  the  men 
of  the  logs  passed  noisily  out  of  the  North. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

A    PROPHECY 

In  the  gray  of  the  morning  Jacques  Lacombie 
retted  to  his  lodge  to  find  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta 
seated  in  front  of  the  tepee  staring  into  the  dead 
ashes  of  the  fire. 

In  answer  to  his  rough  questioning  she  arose 
stiffly,  stalked  to  the  open  flap  of  the  lodge  and, 
standing  aside,  pointed  mutely  to  the  silent  figures 
within. 

Both  slept.  The  fever-flushed  face  of  the  man 
pillowed  upon  the  bare  arm  of  the  girl,  whose  body 
had  settled  wearily  forward  until  her  head,  with 
its  mass  of  black  tresses,  rested  upon  his  breast, 
where  it  rose  and  fell  to  the  heave  of  his  labored 
breathing. 

Long  the  half-breed  looked,  uttering  no  word, 
while  the  old  squaw  searched  his  face  which 
remained  as  expressionless  as  a  face  of  stone. 

"MJse  a  fire, "  he  commanded  gruffly,  and  slung 
his  pack  upon  the  ground.  She  obeyed,  muttering 
the  while,  and  Jacques  watched  her  as  he  filled 
and  lighted  his  pipe. 

"The  man  is  M's'u'  Bill,"  he  observed,  appar- 

222 


A  Prophecy  223 

ently  talking  to  himself,  ' '  The-Man-Who-Cannot- 
Die.' 

The  old  woman  shot  him  a  keen  glance  as  she 
hovered  over  the  tiny  flame  that  licked  at  the 
twigs  of  dry  larchwood.  "All  men  die,"  she 
muttered  dully.     "Did  not  Lacombie  die?" 

"At  midnight  I  passed  through  the  deserted 
camp  of  Moncrossen, "  the  man  continued,  paying 
no  heed  to  her  remark.  "Creed  did  not  go  out 
with  the  drive,  but  stayed  behind  to  guard  the 
camp,  and  he  told  me  of  the  death  of  this  man; 
how  he  himself  saw  him  sink  beneath  the  waters 
of  the  river  and  saw  the  logs  of  the  jam  rush  over 
him. 

"As  we  talked,  and  because  he  had  been  drink- 
ing much  whisky,  he  told  me  that  it  was  he  who 
locked  this  man  in  the  shack  last  winter  and  then 
set  fire  to  the  shack.  He  told  me  also  Moncrossen 
desired  this  man's  death  above  any  other  thing, 
and  had  ordered  the  breaking  of  the  jam  at  a 
moment  when  he  knew  the  chechako  could  not 
escape,  so  that  he  was  hurled  into  the  water  and 
killed." 

The  old  woman  interrupted  him.  "I  drew  him 
upon  the  bank,  thinking  he  was  Moncrossen, 
and  that  I  might  breathe  upon  him  the  curse. 
Because  his  heart  is  bad,  being  a  man  of  logs, 
I  would  have  returned  him  to  the  river  whence  he 
came;  but  Jeanne  prevented."  Jacques  smiled 
at  the  bitter  disappointment  in  her  voice. 

"It  is  well,"  he  returned.     "See  to  it  that  he 


224  The  Promise 

lives.  Moncrossen  is  great  among  the  white  men 
— and  his  heart  is  bad.  But  the  heart  of  the 
chechako  is  good,  and  one  day  will  come  a  reckoning, 
and  in  that  day  the  curse  of  the  Yaga  Tah  shall 
fall  from  thy  lips  upon  the  dead  face  of  Mcn- 
crossen. " 

"All  white  men  are  bad, "  grumbled  the  squaw. 
"There  is  no  good  white  man." 

Jacques  silenced  her  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 
"What  is  that  to  you,  oh,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  good 
or  bad,  if  he  kills  Moncrossen?" 

The  old  woman  leaped  to  her  feet  and  pointed 
a  sharp  skinny  finger  toward  the  tepee,  her  eyes 
flashed,  and  the  cracked  voice  rang  thin  with 
anger. 

"The  girl!"  she  cried.     "Jeanne,  thy  sister!" 

Her  son  stepped  close  to  her  side  and  spoke  low 
with  the  quiet  voice  of  assurance: 

"No  harm  will  come  to  the  girl.  I  have  many 
times  talked  with  this  man  as  he  worked  in  the 
timber.  His  heart  is  good — and  his  lips  do  not 
lie.  I,  who  have  looked  into  his  eyes,  have 
spoken.  And,  that  you  shall  know  my  words 
are  true,  if  harm  befall  the  girl  at  the  hand  of 
the  white  chechako,  with  this  knife  shall  you  kill 
me  as  I  sleep." 

He  withdrew  a  long,  keen  blade  from  its  sheath 
and  handed  it  to  the  squaw,  who  took  it. 

"And  not  only  you  will  I  kill,  but  him  also," 
she  answered,  testing  its  edge  upon  her  thumb. 
"For  the  moon  has  spoken,  and  blood  will  flow. 


A  Prophecy  225 

Last  night,  in  the  wet  red  moon,  I  saw  it — dripping 
tears  of  blood — twelve,  besides  one  small  one,  and 
they  were  swallowed  up  in  the  mist  of  the  river. 
I,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  the  daughter  of  Kas-ka-tan,  the 
chief,  who  know  the  signs,  have  spoken. 

"Before  the  full  of  the  thirteenth  moon  blood 
will  flow  upon  the  bank  of  the  river.  But  whose 
blood  I  know  not,  for  a  great  cloud  came  and  cov- 
ered the  face  of  the  moon,  and  when  it  was  gone 
the  tears  of  blood  were  no  more  and  the  mist  had 
returned  to  the  river — and  the  meaning  of  this  I 
know  not." 

She  ceased  speaking  abruptly  at  a  sound  from  the 
tepee  as  the  girl  emerged  and  stepped  quickly  to 
the  fire. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  said  Jeanne 
hurriedly  to  her  brother.  "You,  who  are  skilled 
in  the  mending  of  bones.  The  man's  leg  is  broken ; 
it  is  swollen  and  gives  him  much  pain.  " 

Jacques  followed  her  into  the  tepee  and,  after 
a  careful  examination,  removed  the  unconscious 
man. 

The  setting  of  the  bones  required  no  small 
amount  of  labor  and  ingenuity.  Carmody  was 
placed  between  two  trees,  to  one  of  which  his  body 
was  firmly  bound  at  the  shoulders. 

A  portion  of  the  bark  was  removed  from  the 
other  tree  and  the  smooth  surface  rubbed  with 
fat.  Around  this  was  passed  a  stout  line,  one 
end  of  which  was  made  fast  to  the  injured  leg  at 
the  ankle. 
is 


226  The  Promise 

A  trimmed  sapling  served  as  a  capstan  bar, 
against  which  the  two  women  threw  their  weight, 
wThile  Jacques  fitted  the  bone  ends  neatly  together 
and  applied  the  splints. 

The  Indians,  schooled  in  the  treatment  of 
wounds  and  broken  bones,  were  helpless  as  babes 
before  the  ravages  of  the  dreaded  pneumonia 
which  racked  the  great  body  of  the  sick  man. 

Bill  Carmody's  recollection  of  the  following 
days  was  confined  to  a  hopeless  confusion  of 
distorted  brain  pictures  in  which  the  beautiful 
face  of  the  girl,  the  repulsive  features  of  the  old 
crone,  and  the  swart  countenance  of  the  half-breed 
were  inextricably  blended. 

For  two  weeks  he  lay,  interspersing  long  periods 
of  unconsciousness  with  hours  of  wild,  delirious 
raving.  Then  the  disease  wore  itself  out,  and 
Jeanne  Lacombie,  entering  the  tepee  one  morn- 
ing, encountered  the  steady  gaze  of  the  sunken 
eyes. 

With  a  short  exclamation  of  pleasure  she  crossed 
the  intervening  space  and  knelt  at  his  side.  The 
two  regarded  each  other  in  silence.  At  length 
Bill's  lips  moved  and  he  started  slightly  at  the 
weak,  toneless  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

"So  you  are  real,  after  all,"  he  smiled. 

The  girl  returned  the  smile  frankly. 

"M's'u'  has  been  very  sick,"  she  imparted, 
speaking  slowly,  as  though  selecting  her  words. 

Bill  nodded;  he  felt  dizzy  and  helplessly  weak. 

"How  long  have  I  been  here?"  he  asked. 


A  Prophecy  227 

"Since  the  turning  of  the  moon." 

"I'm  afraid  that  is  not  very  definite.  You  see 
I  didn't  even  know  the  moon  had  been  turned. 
Who  turned  it?  And  is  it  really  turned  to  cheese 
or  just  turned  around?" 

The  girl  regarded  him  gravely,  a  puzzled  expres- 
sion puckering  her  face.     Bill  laughed. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  begged.  "I  was  talking 
nonsense.  Can  you  tell  me  how  many  days  I 
have  been  here?" 

"It  is  fifteen  days  since  we  drew  you  from  the 
river. 

"Who's  we?" 

Again  the  girl  seemed  perplexed. 

"I  mean,  who  helped  you  pull  me  out  of  the 
drink?" 

"  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta.  She  is  my  mother.  She  is 
an  Indian,  and  very  old. " 

"Are  you  an  Indian?"  asked  the  man  in  such 
evident  surprise  that  the  girl  laughed. 

"My  father  was  white.  I  am  a  breed,"  she 
answered;  then  with  a  quick  lifting  of  the  chin, 
hastened  to  add:  "But  not  like  the  breeds  of  the 
rivers!  My  father  was  Lacombie,  the  factor  at 
Crossette,  and  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  was  the  daughter 
of  Kas-ka-tan,  the  chief,  and  they  were  married 
by  a  priest  at  the  mission. 

"That  was  very  long  ago,  and  now  Lacombie  is 
dead  and  the  priest  also,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  has  a 
paper ;  also  it  is  written  in  the  book  at  the  mission 
that  men  may  read  it  and  know. " 


228  The  Promise 

Carmody  was  amused  at  her  eagerness  and 
watched  the  changing  expression  of  her  face  as 
she  continued  more  slowly: 

"  My  father  was  good.  But  he  is  dead  and,  until 
you  came,  there  has  been  no  good  white  man." 

Bill  smiled  at  the  naive  frankness  of  her. 

"Why  do  you  think  that  I  am  good?"  he 
inquired. 

"In  your  eyes  I  have  read  it.  That  night, 
before  the  wild  fever-spirit  entered  your  body,  I 
looked  long  into  your  eyes.  And  has  not  Jacques 
told  me  of  how  you  killed  the  loup-garou;  of  how 
you  are  hated  by  Moncrossen,  and  feared  by 
Creed? 

' '  Do  I  not  know  that  fire  cannot  burn  you  nor 
water  drown?  Did  you  not  beat  down  the  great- 
est of  Moncrossen's  fighting  men?  And  has  not 
Wabishke  told  in  the  woods,  to  the  wonder  of  all, 
how  you  drink  no  whisky,  but  pour  it  upon  your 
feet?" 

The  girl  spoke  softly  and  rapidly,  her  face 
flushing. 

"Do  I  not  know  all  your  thoughts?"  she  con- 
tinued. "  I  who  have  sat  at  your  side  through  the 
long  days  of  your  sickness  and  listened  to  the  voice 
of  the  fever-spirit?  At  such  times  the  heart  can- 
not lie,  and  the  lips  speak  the  truth. " 

She  leaned  closer,  and  unconsciously  a  slender, 
white-brown  hand  fell  upon  his,  and  the  soft, 
tapering  fingers  closed  upon  his  own.  A  delicious 
thrill  passed  through  his  body  at  the  touch. 


A  Prophecy  229 

As  he  looked  into  the  beautiful  face  so  close  to 
his,  with  the  white  flash  of  pearly  teeth  in  the 
play  of  the  red  lips;  the  eyes  luminous,  like  twin 
stars,  a  strange,  numbing  loneliness  overcame 
him. 

She  was  speaking  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
soothing  and  far  away,  so  that  he  could  not  make 
out  the  words.  Slowly  his  eyelids  closed,  blotting 
out  the  face — and  he  slept. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A  BUCKSKIN  HUNTING-SHIRT 

The  days  of  his  convalescence  in  the  camp  of 
the  Lacombies  were  days  fraught  with  mingled 
emotions  in  the  heart  of  Bill  Carmody. 

Old  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  treated  him  with  cold 
deference,  anticipating  his  needs  with  a  sagacity 
that  was  almost  uncanny.  She  appeared  hardly 
to  be  aware  of  his  presence,  yet  many  times  the 
man  felt,  without  seeing,  the  deep,  burning  gaze 
of  the  undimmed,  black  eyes. 

Jacques,  whom  he  had  known  in  the  logging- 
camp  as  Blood  River  Jack,  treated  him  with  open 
friendliness,  and  as  he  became  able  to  move  about 
the  camp,  taught  him  much  of  the  lore  of  the 
forest,  of  the  building  of  nets  and  traps,  the  smoke- 
tanning  of  buckskin,  and  the  taking  and  drying 
of  salmon. 

During  the  long  evenings  the  two  sat  close 
to  the  smudge  of  the  camp-fire  and  talked  of  many 
things,  while  the  women  listened. 

But  of  the  three  it  was  the  girl  who  most  inter- 

230 


A  Buckskin  Hunting-Shirt        231 

ested  him.  She  was  his  almost  constant  compan- 
ion, silent  and  subtle  at  times,  and  with  the  inborn 
subtlety  of  women  she  defied  his  most  skilful 
attempts  to  share  her  thoughts. 

At  other  times  her  naive  frankness  and  innocent 
brutality  of  expression  surprised  and  amused  him. 
Baffling,  revealing — she  remained  at  all  times 
an  enigma. 

By  the  middle  of  June  Bill  was  able  to  make 
short  excursions  to  the  river  with  the  aid  of  the 
crutches  which  Blood  River  Jack  crudely  fash- 
ioned from  young  saplings. 

With  his  increased  freedom  of  movement  his 
restlessness  increased.  Somewhere  along  the 
river,  he  knew,  the  bird's-eye  logs  were  banked, 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  Moncrossen  and  Stromberg 
to  raft  them  to  the  railway,  and  he  surmised 
that  their  coming  would  not  be  long  delayed. 

Over  and  over  in  his  mind  he  turned  schemes 
for  outwitting  the  boss.  The  strength  was  rapidly 
returning  to  his  injured  leg  and  he  discarded  one 
crutch,  using  the  other  only  to  help  him  over  the 
rough  places. 

He  was  in  no  condition  to  undertake  a  journey 
to  the  railway,  and  in  spite  of  Blood  River  Jack's 
expressed  hatred  of  Moncrossen  and  friendship 
for  himself,  he  hesitated  about  taking  the  half- 
breed  into  his  confidence. 

At  length  he  could  stand  the  suspense  no  longer. 
Each  day's  delay  lessened  his  chance  of  success. 
He  decided  to  act — to  lay  the  matter  before  Blood 


232  The  Promise 

River  Jack  and  ask  his  cooperation,  and  if  he 
refused,  to  play  the  game  alone. 

He  came  to  this  decision  one  afternoon  while 
seated  upon  a  great  log  overlooking  the  rushing 
rapid.  Beside  him  sat  Jeanne,  apparently 
deeply  engrossed  in  the  embroidering  of  a  buck- 
skin hunting-shirt. 

After  a  long  silence  Bill  knocked  the  dead 
ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  his  jaw  squared  as  he 
looked  out  over  the  foaming  white-water.  He 
turned  toward  the  girl  and  encountered  the  intense 
gaze  of  her  dark  eyes. 

The  neglected  needlework  lay  across  her  knees, 
the  small  hands  were  folded,  and  the  shining 
needle  glinted  in  the  sun  where  it  had  been  deftly 
caught  into  the  yellow  buckskin  at  the  turning 
of  an  unfinished  scroll. 

"The  logs  which  you  seek,"  she  said  quietly, 
"are  piled  upon  the  bank  of  the  river,  half  a  mile 
below  the  rapids. "  The  man  regarded  her  with 
a  startled  glance. 

"What  do  you  know  about  these  logs — and  of 
what  I  was  thinking?" 

She  answered  him  with  a  curious,  baffling  smile, 
and,  ignoring  his  question,  continued: 

"You  need  help.  I  am  but  a  girl  and  know 
naught  of  logs  nor  why  these  logs  did  not  go  down 
the  river  with  the  others.  But  in  your  face  as 
you  pondered  from  day  to  day  I  have  read  it.  Is 
it  not  that  you  would  prevent  Moncrossen  from 
taking  these  logs?     But  you  know  not  how  to  do 


A  Buckskin  Hunting-Shirt        233 

it,  for  the  logs  must  go  down  the  river  and  Mon- 
crossen  must  come  up  the  river?" 

"You  are  a  wonder!"  he  exclaimed  in  admira- 
tion. "That's  exactly  what's  been  bothering 
me."  She  blushed  furiously  under  his  gaze 
and,  with  lowering  eyes,  continued: 

"I  do  not  know  how  it  can  be  managed,  but 
Jacques  will  know.  You  may  trust  Jacques  as 
you  trust  me.  For  we  are  your  friends,  and  his 
hatred  of  Moncrossen  is  a  real  hatred. " 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"Do  you  know  why  Jacques  hates  Moncrossen, 
and  why  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  hates  all  white  men?" 
she  asked.  Bill  shook  his  head  and  listened  as 
the  girl,  with  blazing  eyes,  told  him  of  the  death 
of  Pierre,  and  then,  of  the  horror  of  that  night  on 
Broken  Knee. 

At  her  words  Bill  Carmody's  face  darkened, 
and  his  great  fists  clenched  until  the  nails  bit 
deep  into  his  palms.  The  steel-gray  eyes  nar- 
rowed to  slits  and,  as  the  girl  finished,  he  arose 
and  gently  lifted  one  of  the  little  hands  between 
his  own. 

"  I,  too,  could  kill  Moncrossen  for  that, "  he  said, 
and  the  tone  of  his  voice  was  low,  and  soft,  with  a 
tense,  even  softness  that  sounded  in  the  ears 
of  the  girl  more  terrible  than  a  thousand  loud 
hurled  threats. 

She  looked  up  quickly  into  the  face  of  the  glint- 
ing eyes,  her  tiny  hand  trembled  in  his,  and  a 
sudden  flush  deepened  the  warm  color  of  her  neck. 


234  The  Promise 

"For  me?"  she  faltered.  "Me?"  And,  with  a 
half-smothered,  frightened  gasp,  tore  her  hand 
free  and  fled  swiftly  into  the  forest. 

Bill  stared  a  long  time  at  the  place  where  she 
disappeared,  and,  smiling,  stooped  and  picked  up 
her  needlework  where  it  had  fallen  at  his  feet. 

He  examined  it  idly  for  a  moment  and  then 
more  closely  as  a  puzzled  look  crept  into  his  eyes. 
The  garment  he  held  in  his  hand  was  never 
designed  for  a  covering  for  the  girl's  own  lithe 
body,  nor  was  it  small  enough  even  for  Jacques. 

"She's  worked  on  it  every  day  for  a  month, "  he 
murmured,  as  he  glanced  from  the  intricate 
embroidered  design  to  his  own  shirt  of  ragged 
flannel,  and  again  he  smiled — bitterly. 

"She's  a  queer  kid,"  he  said  softly,  as  he 
recovered  his  crutch;  "and  a  mighty  good  kid, 
too. " 


CHAPTER  XXX 

CREED 

That  night  the  four  sat  late  about  the  camp- 
fire. 

Old  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  silent  and  forbidding,  as 
usual,  but  with  a  sharp  ear  for  all  that  was  said, 
listened  as  they  laid  their  plans. 

At  their  conclusion  the  others  sought  their  blank- 
ets, while  Jacques  took  the  trail  for  the  camp  of  old 
Wabishke  whose  help  was  needed  in  the  under- 
taking which  was  to  involve  no  small  amount  of 
labor. 

As  the  two  women  finished  the  preparation  of 
breakfast  the  following  morning,  the  half-breed 
appeared,  followed  closely  by  the  old  Indian 
trapper  whose  scarred  lips  broke  into  a  hideous 
grin  at  the  sight  of  Bill. 

"This  is  Wabishke,  of  whom  I  spoke,"  said 
Jacques,  indicating  the  Indian.  Bill  laughingly 
extended  his  hand,  which  the  other  took. 

"Well!  If  it  isn't  my  friend,  the  Yankee!" 
he  exclaimed.  "Wabishke  and  I  are  old  friends. 
He  is  the  first  man  I  met  in  the  woods."  The 
Indian  nodded,  grunted,  and  pointed  to  his  feet 

235  - 


236  The  Promise 

which  were  encased  in  a  very  serviceable  pair  of 
boots. 

"Oh,  I  remember,  perfectly,"  laughed  Bill. 
"Have  you  still  got  my  matches?"  Wabishke 
grinned. 

"You  keel  loup-garou  with  knife? "  he  asked,  as  if 
seeking  corroboration  for  an  unbelievable  story. 

"I  sure  did,"  Bill  answered.  "The  old  gal 
tried  to  bite  me." 

The  Indian  regarded  him  with  grave  approval 
and,  stepping  to  his  side,  favored  him  with  another 
greasy  hand-shake,  after  which  ceremony  he 
squatted  by  the  fire  and  removing  a  half-dozen 
pieces  of  bacon  from  the  frying-pan  proceeded  to 
devour  them  with  evident  relish. 

Breakfast  over,  the  three  men  accompanied 
by  Jeanne  set  out  for  the  river,  leaving  to  old 
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  the  work  of  the  camp.  Sliding  a 
canoe  into  the  water,  they  took  their  places, 
Jacques  and  Wabishke  at  the  paddles,  with 
Jeanne  and  Bill  seated  on  the  bottom  amidships. 

Close  to  the  opposite  bank  the  canoe  was 
headed  down -stream  and,  under  the  swift,  strong 
strokes  of  the  paddles,  glided  noiselessly  in  the 
shadows.  A  few  minutes  later,  at  a  sign  from 
Jacques  who  was  in  the  bow,  Wabishke,  with  a 
deft  twist  of  his  paddle,  slanted  the  canoe  bank- 
ward. 

With  a  soft,  rustling  sound  the  light  craft  parted 
the  low  hanging  branches  of  killikinick  and  dia- 
mond willow,  and  buried  its  nose  in  the  soft  mud, 


Creed  237 

Peering  through  the  tangle  of  underbrush  the 
occupants  of  the  canoe  made  out,  some  fifty  yards 
below  their  position,  a  small  clearing  in  the  center 
of  which,  just  above  the  high-water  mark  of  the 
river,  was  a  small  pyramid  of  logs. 

Seated  beside  the  pile,  with  his  back  resting 
against  the  ends  of  the  logs,  sat  a  man  holding 
a  rifle  across  his  knees. 

Bill  Carmody's  fighting  spirit  thrilled  at  the 
sight.  Here  at  last  was  action.  Here  were  the 
stolen  logs  of  bird's-eye,  and  guarding  them  was 
Creed ! 

While  the  others  steadied  the  canoe  he  stepped 
noiselessly  onto  the  bank,  where  he  sank  to  his 
ankles  in  the  mud,  and,  seizing  hold  of  the  bow 
shot  the  canoe  out  into  the  current. 

Creed  had  been  left  in  the  woods  by  Moncrossen, 
ostensibly  to  guard  the  Blood  River  camp  against 
pilfering  Indians  and  chance  forest  fires,  but  his 
real  mission  was  to  keep  watch  on  the  bird's-eye 
until  it  could  be  safely  rafted  to  the  railway. 

Moncrossen  promised  to  return  about  the 
middle  of  June,  and  ten  mornings  Creed  had 
skulked  the  three  miles  from  the  lumber  camp 
to  the  logs,  and  ten  evenings  he  had  skulked 
fearfully  back  again,  muttering  futile  curses  at 
the  boss's  delay. 

Creed  was  uneasy.  Not  since  the  evening  the 
greener  had  walked  into  Hod  Burrage's  store  at 
the  very  moment  when  he,  Creed,  was  recounting 
to    the    interested    listeners    the    circumstances 


238  The  Promise 

attending  his  demise,  had  he  been  entirely  free 
from  a  haunting,  nameless  fear. 

True,  as  he  told  Blood  River  Jack,  he  had  after- 
ward seen  with  his  own  eyes,  the  greener  go  down 
under  the  rushing  jam  where  no  man  could  possibly 
go  down  and  live. 

But,  nevertheless,  deep  in  his  heart  was  the 
terror — nameless,  unreasoning,  haunting, — that 
clung  to  him  night  and  day.  So  that  a  hundred 
times  a  day,  alone  in  the  timber,  he  would  start 
and  cast  quick,  jerky  glances  over  his  shoulder 
and  jump,  white-faced  and  trembling,  at  the 
snapping  of  a  twig. 

As  the  days  went  by  the  nameless  terror  grew, 
dogging  his  footsteps,  phantomlike  by  day,  and 
haunting  him  at  night,  as  he  lay  shaking  in  his 
bunk  in  the  double-locked  little  office. 

With  the  single  exception  of  Blood  River  Jack, 
he  had  seen  no  human  being  since  the  drive,  and 
his  frenzied  desire  for  companionship  would  have 
been  pitiful,  had  it  been  less  craven. 

He  slept  fitfully  with  his  rifle  loaded  and  often 
cocked  in  his  bunk  beside  him,  while  during  the 
day  it  was  never  out  of  reach  of  his  hand. 

In  his  daily  excursions  to  the  bird's-eye  roll- 
way  he  never  took  the  same  route  twice,  but 
skulked,  peering  fearfully  about  in  the  underbrush, 
avoiding  even  the  game  trails. 

And  always  he  detoured  widely  the  place  where 
he  had  seen  the  greener  disappear  beneath  the 
muddy,  log-ridden  waters. 


Creed  239 

And  so  it  was  that  upon  this  particular  morn- 
ing Creed  sat  close  against  the  pyramid  of  logs — 
waiting. 

At  a  sound  from  the  river  he  jerked  his  rifle 
into  readiness  for  immediate  action  and  sat  ner- 
vously alert,  his  thumb  twitching  on  the  hammer. 
Approaching  down-stream  came  a  canoe. 

Creed  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  maudlin  grin  of 
relief  as  he  recognized  the  three  occupants.  Ap- 
parently they  had  not  seen  him,  and  he  stepped  to 
the  bank  fearful  lest  they  pass. 

"Hey!  You,  Jack!"  he  called,  waving  his 
cap. 

The  bow-man  ceased  paddling  and  gazed  shore- 
ward in  evident  surprise ;  the  man  on  the  bank  was 
motioning  them  in  with  wide  sweeps  cf  the  arm. 
The  half-breed  called  a  few  hasty  words  over  his 
shoulder  and  the  canoe  shot  toward  shore. 

"Where  y'  goin'?"  asked  Creed,  as  the  three 
stepped  onto  the  bank.  Blood  River  Jack  replied 
with  an  indefinite  sweep  of  his  arm  to  the  south- 
ward. 

"Well,  y'  ain't  in  no  hurry.  Never  seen  a 
Injun  yet  cudn't  stop  long  'nough  to  take  a  drink 
o'  licker.     Har,  har,  har!" 

He  laughed  foolishly,  with  an  exaggerated  wink 
toward  the  old  Indian. 

"  How  'bout  it,  Wabishke ;  leetle  fire-water  make 
yer  belt  fit  better?  'Tain't  a  goin'  to  cost  y' 
nawthin'." 

The  Indian  grinned  and  grunted  acquiescence, 


240  The  Promise 

and  Creed  inserted  his  arm  between  two  logs  and 
withdrew  a  squat,  black  bottle. 

"Here's  some  reg'lar  ol'  'rig'nal  red-eye.  An' 
here's  lookin'  at  ye,"  he  said,  as  he  removed  the 
cork  and  sucked  greedily  at  the  contents.  "Jest 
tuk  a  taste  fust,  'cause  I  don't  like  to  give  vis' tors 
whisky  I  wudn't  drink  m'self,  har,  har,  har!  Any- 
ways, the  way  I  rigger,  it's  white  men  fust,  then 
half  white,  then  Injuns."  He  passed  the  bottle 
to  Jacques. 

"  'Fraid's  little  too  strong  fer  ladies, "  he  smirked, 
at  Jeanne,  and,  reaching  out  quickly,  jerked  the 
upturned  bottle  from  Wabishke's  lips. 

11  Hey,  y'  ol'  pirate!  Y'  don't  need  fer  to  empty 
it  all  to  wunst.  Set  roun'  a  while,  an'  bimeby 
we'll  have  'nother.  'S  all  on  me  to-day ;  this  here's 
my  party." 

They  seated  themselves  on  the  ground  and 
engaged  in  conversation,  in  which  Creed  did  most 
of  the  talking. 

"Trade  rifles?"  asked  Blood  River  Jack, 
idly  picking  up  Creed's  gun  and  examining  it 
minutely. 

"Beats  all  how  a  Injun  alius  wants  to  be  a 
tradin',"  grinned  Creed.  "Don't  know  but  what 
I  mought,  though,  at  that.     What's  yourn?" 

"Winchester,  30-40,"  replied  Jacques,  handing 
it  over  for  inspection. 

"Mine,  too,"  said  Creed;  "only  mine's  newer. 
What'U  y'  give  to  boot?"  Jacques  did  not  hurry 
his  answer,  being  engaged  in  removing  the  cart- 


Creed  241 

ridges  for  the  better  inspection  of  magazine  and 
chamber. 

"Mine's  better  kep',"  he  opined  after  a  careful 
squinting  down  the  muzzle. 

11  Kep'  nawthin' !  'Sail  nicked  up.  An',  besides, 
it  pulls  hard." 

Jacques  was  deliberately  refilling  the  magazine, 
but  so  intent  was  Creed  in  picking  out  fancied 
defects  in  the  other's  weapon  that  he  failed  to  notice 
that  the  cartridges  which  were  being  placed  in  his 
own  rifle  had  had  their  bullets  carefully  drawn, 
while  his  original  cartridges  reposed  snugly  in 
the  pocket  of  the  half -breed's  mackinaw. 

"Tell  y'  what  I'll  do, "  said  Creed,  speaking  in  a 
tone  of  the  utmost  generosity.  "Give  me  ten 
dollars  to  boot,  an'  we'll  call  it  a  trade. " 

Jacques  laughed  loudly  and,  handing  the  other 
his  rifle,  picked  up  his  own. 

"We  must  be  goin',"  he  observed,  and  rose 
to  his  feet. 

"Better  have  'nother  drink  'fore  y'  go,"  said 
Creed,  tendering  the  bottle.  They  drank  around 
and  Creed  returned  the  bottle  to  its  cache,  while 
the  others  took  their  places  in  the  canoe. 

"Make  it  five,  then,"  Creed  extended  the  rifle 
as  though  giving  it  away. 

Jacques  shook  his  head,  and  pushed  the  canoe 
out  into  the  stream. 

The  man  on  shore  eyed  the  widening  strip  of 
water  between  the  bank  and  the  canoe. 

"  I'll  make  it  three,  seein'  ye're  so  hell-bent  on  a 
16 


242  The  Promise 

trade,"  he  called.  But  his  only  answer  was  a 
loud  laugh  as  the  canoe  disappeared  around  a 
sharp  bend  of  the  river. 

Creed  resumed  his  position  with  his  back  against 
the  ends  of  the  logs. 

At  a  point  some  fifty  feet  up-stream  from  the 
diminutive  rollway,  and  about  the  same  distance 
from  the  shore,  a  blackened  snag  thrust  its  ugly 
head  above  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  against 
this  snag  brushwood  and  drift  had  collected  and 
was  held  by  the  push  of  the  stream  which  gurgled 
merrily  among  its  interstices. 

Creed's  gaze,  resting  momentarily  upon  this 
miniature  island,  failed  entirely  to  note  that  it 
concealed  a  man  who  stood  immersed  in  the  river 
from  his  neck  down,  and  eyed  him  keenly  through 
narrowed  gray  eyes;  and  that  also  this  man  was 
doing  a  most  peculiar  thing. 

Reaching  into  the  pocket  of  his  water-soaked 
shirt  he  withdrew  several  long,  steel-jacketed 
bullets  and,  holding  them  in  the  palm  of  his  hand, 
grinned  broadly. 

Then,  one  by  one,  he  placed  them  in  his  mouth, 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  dived.  The  water  at  this 
point  was  about  four  feet  in  depth  and  the  man 
swam  rapidly,  close  to  the  bottom. 

Creed's  glance,  roving  idly  over  the  river,  was 
arrested  by  a  quick  commotion  upon  the  surface 
of  the  water  almost  directly  in  front  of  him. 

He  seized  his  rifle  and  leaped  to  his  feet,  hoping 
for  a  shot  at  a  stray  otter.     The  next  instant  the 


Creed  243 

rifle  slipped  from  his  nerveless  fingers  and  struck 
upon  the  ground  with  a  muffled  thud. 

Instead  of  an  otter  he  was  looking  directly  into 
the  face  of  a  man. 

"God  A'mi'ty,"  he  gurgled,  "it's  the  greener!" 
He  leaned  heavily  against  the  logs,  plucking  fool- 
ishly at  the  bark.     His  scalp  tingled  from  fright. 

His  mouth  sagged  open  and  the  lolling,  flabby 
tongue  drooled  thickly.  His  face  became  a  dull, 
bloodless  gray,  glistening  glaireously  with  clammy 
sweat,  and  his  eyes  dilated  until  they  seemed 
bulging  from  their  sockets. 

It  seemed  ages  he  stood  there,  staring  in  horrible 
fascination  at  the  man  in  the  rivei1 — and  then  the 
man  moved! 

He  was  advancing  slowly  shoreward,  with  a 
curious  limp,  as  he  had  entered  Burrage's  store. 
Creed's  ashen  lips  moved  stiffly,  and  his  tongue 
seemed  to  fill  his  mouth. 

"I've  got  'em!  I've  got  'em,"  he  maundered. 
4"S  the  booze,  an'  I'm  seein'  things!" 

His  groping  brain  grasped  at  the  idea,  and  it 
gave  him  strength — better  the  "snakes"  than 
that!  But  he  must  do  something,  the  man  was 
coming  toward  him — only  hip-deep  now 

"Go  'way!  Go  'way!"  he  shrieked  in  a  sudden 
frenzy  of  action.  "Damn  you!  Y'redead!  D'ye 
hear  me!     Go  'way  from  here!" 

Suddenly  his  weakening  knees  stiffened  under 
him,  and  he  reached  swiftly  for  the  rifle  on  the 
ground  at  his  feet. 


244  The  Promise 

Slowly  and  deliberately  he  raised  it,  cocked  it, 
rested  it  across  a  log,  and  took  deliberate  aim  at  the 
center  of  the  man's  face — twenty  paces  away. 

"Bang!"  The  crack  of  the  rifle  sounded  loud 
and  sharp  in  the  tense  stillness. 

The  apparition,  at  the  water's  edge,  raised  its 
hand  slowly  to  its  lips,  and  from  between  its  teeth 
took  a  small  object  which  it  tossed  toward  the 
other.  The  object  struck  lightly  against  Creed's 
breast  and  dropped  to  the  ground. 

He  looked,  downward — it  was  a  30-40  bullet — 
his  own!  He  stared  dumbly  at  the  thing  on  the 
ground.  Then,  automatically,  he  fired  again, 
taking  careful  aim. 

Again  the  ghost's  hand  moved  slowly  toward 
its  mouth,  and  again  the  light  tap  upon  his  chest — 
and  two  bullets  lay  upon  the  ground  at  his  feet. 

His  head  felt  strange  and  large,  and  inside  his 
skull  things  were  moving — long,  gray  maggots  that 
twisted,  and  writhed,  and  squirmed,  like  fishing 
worms  in  a  can. 

He  laughed  flatly,  a  senile,  cackling  laugh. 
He  did  not  want  to  laugh,  but  laughed  again  and, 
stooping,  reached  for  the  bullets.  He  stared  at 
his  fingers,  bewildered;  they  groped  helplessly  at 
a  spot  a  foot  from  the  place  where  lay  the  two 
bullets  with  their  shining  steel  jackets. 

He  must  move  his  fingers  to  the  right — this 
way.  Again  he  stared — puzzled;  they  were  mov- 
ing farther  and  farther  toward  the  left — away 
from  the  bullets.     Again  the  dry,  cackling  laugh. 


Creed  245 

He  would  fool  his  fingers.  He  would  move  them 
away  from  the  bullets. 

He  tried,  and  the  next  instant  the  groping  fingers 
closed  unerringly  upon  the  little  cylinders.  The 
laugh  became  an  inarticulate  babble  of  satisfaction, 
his  knees  collapsed,  and  he  pitched  forward  and 
lay  still  with  wide,  staring  eyes,  while  upon  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  appeared  little  flecks  of 
white  foam. 

A  shadow  fell  across  his  face — he  was  staring 
straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  greener,  who  stood, 
dripping  wet  with  the  water  of  the  river  into  which 
he  had  fallen  more  than  two  months  before. 

The  man  leaped  from  the  ground  in  a  sudden 
frenzy  of  terror,  and  fled  screaming  into  the  forest, 
crashing,  wallowing,  tearing  through  the  under- 
brush, he  plunged,  shrieking  like  a  demon. 

The  greener  stood  alone  in  the  clearing  and 
listened  to  the  diminishing  sounds. 

At  length  they  ceased  and,  in  the  silence,  the 
greener  turned  toward  the  sparkling  river,  and  as 
he  looked  there  came  to  his  ear  faint  and  far,  one 
last,  thin  scream. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE  ROBE  OF  DIABLESSE 

It  required  three  days  of  hard  labor  to  remove 
the  fifty-two  bird's-eye  maple  logs  to  a  position 
of  safety.  Jacques  made  a  trip  to  the  log  camp, 
returning  with  a  stout  rope  and  an  armload  of 
baling  wire  which  he  collected  from  the  vicinity  of 
the  stables. 

The  fact  that  bird's-eye  maple  logs,  when 
green,  will  sink  in  water,  rendered  necessary  the 
use  of  two  large  pine  logs  as  floats.  These  were 
connected  at  the  ends  and  in  the  middle  with  rope 
sufficiently  long  to  permit  four  of  the  heavier  logs 
to  rest  upon  the  ropes  between  the  floats. 

The  raft  thus  formed  was  laboriously  towed  up- 
stream to  the  eddy  where  the  bird's-eye  logs  were 
wired  together,  weighted  with  stones,  and  allowed 
to  sink. 

During  the  whole  time  Jeanne  worked  tirelessly 

by  the  side  of  the  men,   and  when  the  last  log 

rested  safely  upon  the  bottom  of  the  river,  and  the 

scars  were  carefully  removed  from  the  bank,  Bill 

surveyed  the  result  with  satisfaction. 

"I  think  that  will  keep  Moncrossen  guessing," 

246 


The  Robe  of  Diablesse  247 

he  laughed.     "He  won't  know  whether  Creed  ate 
the  logs  or  an  air-ship  made  away  with  them." 

"But,  he  will  know  they  are  somewhere,'1  said 
Jeanne  gravely,  "and  he  will  search  for  them  far 
and  wide." 

"He  will  not  find  them,"  Jacques  interrupted. 
"No  man  would  search  up-stream  for  logs,  even 
though  he  believed  them  to  be  upon  the  bottom  of 
the  river." 

"But,  in  the  searching,  he  may  come  upon  the 
lodge,  and  in  his  rage,  who  can  tell  what  he  would 
do?"  Bill's  eyes  narrowed,  and  he  answered  the 
girl  with  a  smile. 

"I  will  remain,  and  if  Moncrossen  comes " 

The  girl  laid  a  small  hand  upon  his  arm  and 
looked  into  his  eyes. 

"I  am  but  a  girl  and  know  nothing  of  logs,  but, 
is  it  not  better  that  he  return  down  the  river  with- 
out searching?" 

Carmody  smiled  into  the  serious  dark  eyes. 
"Go  on,  Jeanne, "  he  said,  "tell  us  what  you  would 
do." 

"It  is  simple — only  to  build  a  big  fire  upon 
the  spot  where  the  logs  were  piled,  and  when 
Moncrossen  finds  the  ashes  he  will  seek  no  farther 
for  his  logs." 

"Great!"  cried  Bill,  in  undisguised  admiration 
and,  with  the  help  of  the  others,  proceeded  to 
carry  the  plan  into  effect.  All  night  they  piled 
fuel  upon  the  fire,  and  in  the  morning  their  efforts 
were  rewarded   by  a   pile   of  ashes  that  would 


248  The  Promise 

easily  be  mistaken  for  the  ruins  of  the  bird's-eye 
rollway. 

With  the  passing  of  the  long,  hot  days  of  sum- 
mer, Bill  Carmody  regained  his  strength,  and  yet 
he  lingered  in  the  camp  of  the  Lacombies. 

Creed  was  seen  no  more  upon  Blood  River,  and 
Bill  assumed  the  responsibility  of  guarding  the 
log  camp,  making  for  the  purpose  almost  daily 
excursions  with  Jeanne  or  Jacques. 

August  mellowed  into  smoky  September — 
September  gave  place  to  the  red  and  gold  of 
October,  and  the  blood  of  the  forest  folk  quickened 
to  the  tang  of  the  North. 

At  the  conclusion  of  one  of  these  tours  of  inspec- 
tion, Bill  came  suddenly  upon  the  girl  standing  in 
awe  before  the  skin  of  Diablesse,  which  remained 
where  he  and  Fallon  had  nailed  it  on  the  wall  of 
the  bunk-house.  Bill  carefully  removed  the  nails 
and  laid  the  dry  pelt  at  the  feet  of  the  girl. 

"See,"  he  said,  "the  skin  of  the  werwolf — it  is 
yours. " 

"Mine!"  she  cried,  with  shining  eyes.  "You 
would  give  me  this  /" 

Bill  smiled.  "Yes,  that  is  all  I  have,  here  in 
the  woods.  But  when  I  return  I  will  bring  you 
many  things  from  the  land  of  the  white  men. " 

"The  robe  of  Diablesse!"  she  breathed  softly, 
as  she  gazed  down  upon  the  peculiar  silvery  sheen 
of  the  great  white  wolfskin.  "I  had  rather  you 
gave  me  this  than  anything  else  in  the  world." 

She  stopped  in  sudden  confusion. 


The  Robe  of  Diablesse  249 

"And  why?"  questioned  Bill,  pleased  at  her 
evident  delight. 

"It  is,"  she  hesitated,  and  a  slender  hand 
clutched  at  her  breast.  "  It  is  as  you  spoke  of  the 
hunting  shirt — that  you  would  always  keep  it 
because  it  is  the  work  of  my  hands.  Only  the  robe 
means  much  more,  for,  among  men  but  one  man 
could  have  slain  the  loup-garou,  and  in  all  the 
North  there  is  none  like  it — the  robe  of  Diablesse ! 
and  it  shall  bring  us  luck- — and — and  happiness?" 
she   added,    the   rich   voice   melting   to   softness. 

At  the  words  the  man  glanced  quickly  into  the 
face  of  the  girl  and  encountered  the  shy,  question- 
ing gaze  of  the  mysterious  dark  eyes.  The  gaze 
did  not  falter,  and  the  deep,  lustrous  eyes  held  the 
man  enthralled  in  their  liquid  depths.  She 
advanced  a  step,  and  stood  her  lithe  young  body 
almost  touching  his  own,  holding  him  fascinated  in 
the  compelling  gaze  of  the  limpid  eyes. 

"And  happiness?"  The  words  were  a  whis- 
pered breath;  the  bronzed  face  of  the  man  paled 
and,  with  an  effort,  he  turned  swiftly  away. 

"Luck!  Happiness!"  he  repeated  dully,  with 
bowed  head.  "For  me  there  can  be  no  happi- 
ness. " 

With  a  low  cry  the  girl  was  at  his  side  and  two 
tiny,  white-brown  hands  clutched  at  the  fringed 
arm  of  his  buckskin  shirt.  The  beautiful  face 
was  flushed,  the  bosom  heaved,  and  from  between 
the  red  lips  poured  a  torrent  of  words: 

"You    shall    find    happiness!     You,    who    are 


250  The  Promise 

great  and  strong  and  brave  above  all  men!  You, 
who  are  good,  and  whom  the  Great  Spirit  sent  to 
me  from  the  waters  of  the  river ! 

"You,  The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die,  shall  turn 
from  your  own  kind,  and  shall  find  your  happiness 
beside  the  rivers,  and  in  the  forests  of  my  people! 
Together  we  will  journey  to  some  far  place,  and  in 
our  lodge  will   dwell  love  and  great  happiness. 

"And  you  shall  become  a  mighty  hunter,  and 
in  all  the  North  you  shall  be  feared  and  loved." 

The  girl  paused  and  gazed  wildly  into  the  eyes 
of  the  man.  His  face  was  drawn  and  pale,  and 
in  his  eyes  she  read  deep  pain.  Gently  his  hand 
closed  over  the  slender  fingers  that  gripped  his 
sleeve,  and  at  the  touch  the  girl  trembled  and 
leaned  closer,  until  her  warm  body  rested  lightly 
against  his  arm.  Bill's  lips  moved  and  the  words 
of  his  toneless  voice  fell  upon  her  ears  like  the  dry 
rustle  of  dead  husks. 

"Jeanne — little  girl — you  do  not  understand. 
These  things  cannot  be.  Only  unhappiness  would 
come  to  us.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  would 
not  do  for  you. 

"To  you  I  owe  my  life — to  you  and  Wa-ha-ta- 
na-ta.  But,  love  cannot  be  ordered.  It  is  written 
■ — and,  far  away,  in  the  great  city  of  the  white  men, 
is  a  girl' — a  woman  of  my  own  people — > — " 

The  girl  sprang  from  his  side  and  faced  him 
with  blazing  eyes. 

"A  woman  of  your  people!"  she  almost  hissed. 
"In  your  sleep  you  talked  of  her,  while  the  fever- 


The  Robe  of  Diablesse  251 

spirit  was  upon  you.  I  hate  her — this  Ethel! 
She  does  not  love  you,  for  she  will  marry  another ! 
Ah,  in  the  darkness  I  have  listened,  and  listen- 
ing, have  learned  to  hate!  She  sent  you  away 
from  her — for,  in  your  eyes  she  could  not  read 
the  goodness  of  your  heart!" 

Bill  raised  his  hand. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  he  repeated,  pa- 
tiently.    "I  was  not  good — I  was  a  bad  man!" 

"Who,  then,  among  white  men  is  good?  The 
men  of  the  logs,  who  drink  whisky,  and  fight 
among  themselves,  and  kill  one  another?  Is  it 
these  men  that  are  good  in  the  sight  of  your 
woman?  And  are  you,  who  scorn  these  things — 
are  you  bad?" 

"I,  too,  drank  whisky — and  for  that  reason  she 
sent  me  away." 

"But,  you  cannot  return  to  her!  She  is  the 
wife  of  another!  Over  and  over  again  you  said  it, 
in  the  voice  of  the  fever-spirit." 

"No,"  replied  the  man  softly.  "To  her  I 
cannot  return.  But,  listen;  I  start  to-morrow  for 
the  white  man's  country.  To  find  the  man  for 
whom  I   work,   and   tell  him  of  the  bird's-eye. 

"Soon  I  shall  come  again  into  the  woods.  I 
cannot  marry  you,  for  only  evil  would  come  of  it. 
I  will  bring  you  many  presents,  and  always  we 
shall  be  friends — and  more  than  friends,  for  you 
shall  be  to  me  a  sister  and  I  shall  be  your  brother, 
and  shall  keep  you  from  harm. 

"To-morrow  I  go,  and  you  shall  promise  me 


252  The  Promise 

that  whenever  you  are  in  trouble  of  whatsoever 
kind  you  will  send  for  me — and  I  shall  come  to 
you — be  it  far  or  near,  in  the  night-time  or  in  the 
daytime,  I  will  come — Jeanne,  look  into  my  eyes — 
will  you  promise?" 

The  girl  looked  up,  and  a  ray  of  hope  lightened 
the  pain  in  her  eyes. 

"You  will  surely  return  into  the  North?" 

"I  will  surely  return." 

"I  will  promise,"  she  whispered,  and,  side  by 
side,  in  the  silence  of  the  twilight,  they  left  the 
clearing. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  ONE  GOOD  WHITE  MAN 

The  following  morning  Bill  parted  from  his 
friends.  As  he  was  about  to  step  into  the  canoe 
Jeanne  appeared  at  the  water's  edge  bearing  the 
mackinaw  which  he  had  worn  when  they  drew 
him  from  the  river. 

Without  meeting  his  glance  she  extended  it 
toward  him,  speaking  in  a  low,  tense  voice. 

"In  the  lining  I  have  sewed  them — the  papers 
that  fell  dripping  from  your  pocket — and  the 
picture.  Many  times  I  have  looked  upon  the  face 
of  this  woman,  who  has  caused  you  pain.  And  I 
have  hated!  Oh,  how  I  have  hated!  So  that  I 
could  have  torn  her  in  pieces. 

"And  many  times  I  would  have  burned  them, 
that  you  might  forget.  But,  instead,  I  sewed 
them  from  sight  in  the  lining  of  the  coat — and 
here  is  the  coat. " 

Bill  tossed  the  mackinaw  into  the  bottom  of 
the  canoe. 

" Thank  you,  Jeanne, "  he  said.  "And  until  we 
meet  again,  good-by!" 

253 


254  The  Promise 

With  a  push  of  the  paddle  he  shot  the  light 
canoe  far  out  into  the  current  of  the  stream. 

Bill  paddled  leisurely,  camping  early  and  sitting 
late  over  his  camp-fire  smoking  many  pipefuls 
of  tobacco.  And,  as  he  smoked,  his  thoughts 
drifted  over  the  events  of  the  past  year,  and  the 
people  who  comprised  his  little  world. 

Appleton,  who  had  offered  him  the  chance  to 
make  good;  whole-hearted  Fallon;  devoted  old 
Daddy  Dunnigan ;  Stromberg,  in  whom  was  much 
to  admire;  Creed,  the  craven  tool  of  Moncrossen; 
the  boss  himself,  crooked,  brutal,  vicious;  Blcod 
River  Jack,  his  friend ;  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  the  sinister 
old  squaw,  who  believed  all  white  men  to  be  bad ; 
and  Jeanne,  the  beautiful,  half-wild  girl,  within 
whose  breast  a  great  soul  fluttered  against  the 
restraint  of  her  environment. 

To  this  girl  he  owed  his  life,  and  he  had  repaid 
the  debt  by  trampling  roughshod  upon  her  heart. 
Bitterly  he  reproached  himself  for  not  seeing 
how  things  were  going.  For  not  until  the  day  she 
told  him  in  the  clearing  had  he  guessed  that  she 
loved  him. 

And  yet  now  as  he  looked  backward  he  could 
remember  a  hundred  little  things  that  ought  to 
have  warned  him — a  word  here,  a  look,  a  touch  of 
the  hand — little  things,  insignificant  in  them- 
selves, but  in  the  light  of  his  present  understanding, 
looming  large  as  the  danger  signals  of  a  well- 
ordered  block  system — signals  he  had  blindly 
disregarded,  to  the  wrecking  of  a  heart.     Well, 


The  One  Good  White  Man       255 

he  would  make  all  amends  in  his  power;  would 
look  after  her  as  best  he  could,  and  in  time  she 
would  forget. 

"They  all  forget,"  he  muttered  aloud  with  a 
short,  bitter  laugh,  as  the  memory  of  certain 
staring  head-lines  flashed  through  his  brain.  "I 
wish  to  God  I  could  forget — her!" 

But  the  old  wound  would  not  heal,  and  far  into 
the  night  he  sat  staring  into  the  fire. 

"  It's  a  man's  game, "  he  murmured  as  he  spread 
his  blankets,  "and  I  will  win  out;  but  why?" 

Beyond  the  fire  came  the  sound  of  a  snapping 
twig.  The  man  started,  staring  into  the  gloom, 
when  suddenly  into  the  soft  light  of  the  dying 
embers  stepped  Jeanne  Lacombie.  He  stared  at 
her  speechless. 

There,  in  the  uncertain  glow,  she  stood,  a 
Diana  of  flesh  and  blood,  whose  open  hunting- 
shirt  fell  away  from  her  rounded  throat  in  soft, 
fringed  folds.  Her  short  skirt  of  heavy  drilling 
came  only  to  her  knees;  she  wore  no  stockings, 
and  her  tiny  feet  were  incased  in  heavily  beaded 
moccasins. 

And  so  she  stood  there  in  the  midnight,  smiling 
down  upon  the  man  who  gazed  speechless  from 
his  blanket  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  dying 
fire;  and  then  she  spoke: 

"I  have  come,"  she  said  simply. 

"Jeanne!"  cried  the  man,  "why  have  you  done 
this  thing?" 

"  I  love  you,  and  I  will  go  with  you. 


>t 


256  The  Promise 

"But,  girl,  don't  you  realize  what  it  means? 
This  is  the  third  night  since  I  left  the  camp  of 
Jacques — "  The  girl  interrupted  him  with  a 
laugh : 

"And  I,  too,  have  been  gone  three  nights;  have 
struck  straight  through  the  forest,  and  because 
the  river  makes  a  great  bend  of  many  miles  I  came 
to  this  place  before  you,  and  have  waited  for  you 
here  a  night  and  a  day. 

"And  now  I'm  hungry.  I  will  eat  first,  and 
then  we  will  sleep,  and  to-morrow  we  will  start 
together  for  the  land  of  the  white  men." 

The  man's  mind  worked  rapidly  as  he  watched 
in  silence  while  the  girl  removed  some  bacon  and 
bannock  from  his  pack-sack  and  set  the  coffee- 
pot upon  the  coals.  When  she  had  finished  her 
meal  he  spoke,  slowly  but  firmly. 

"Jeanne,  you  have  waited  here  a  night  and  a 
day;  you  are  rested,  you  have  eaten.  I  will  now 
make  up  the  pack,  and  we  will  take  the  trail." 

"To-night?" 

"Yes,  to-night — now.  The  back  trail  for  the 
lodge  of  Jacques."  The  girl  regarded  him  in 
amazement,  and  then  smiled  sadly,  as  a  mother 
smiles  on  an  erring  child. 

"We  cannot  return,"  she  said,  speaking  softly. 
"  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  would  kill  me.  She  thinks  we 
came  away  together.  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  was  mar- 
ried; we  are  not  married;  we  cannot  go  back." 
The  man  rolled  the  blankets  and  buckled  the 
straps    of   his    pack-sack.       He    was    about    to 


The  One  Good  White  Man       257 

swing  it  to  his  shoulders  when  the  girl  grasped 
his  arm. 

"I  love  you,"  she  repeated,  "and  I  will  go 
with  you. " 

"But,  Jeanne,"  the  man  cried,  "this  cannot 
be.  I  cannot  marry  you.  In  my  life  I  have  loved 
but  one  woman " 

"And  she  is  the  wife  of  another!"  cried  the  girl. 

Bill  winced  as  from  a  blow,  and  she  continued, 
speaking  rapidly : 

"I  do  not  ask  that  you  marry  me — not  even 
that  you  love  me.  It  is  enough  that  I  am  at  your 
side.  You  will  treat  me  kindly,  for  you  are  good. 
Marriage  is  nothing — empty  words — if  the  heart 
loves;  nothing  else  matters,  and  some  day  you 
will  love  me." 

The  man  slowly  shook  his  head : 

"No,  Jeanne,  it  is  impossible.  Come,  we  will 
return  to  the  lodge  of  Jacques.  I  myself  will  tell 
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  that  no  harm  has  befallen  you, 
and " 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  believe  you?  Wa-ha-ta- 
na-ta,  who  hates  all  white  men  and,  next  to 
Moncrossen,  you  most  of  all,  for  she  has  seen  that 
I  love  you.  We  have  been  gone  three  nights. 
She  will  not  believe  you.  If  you  will  not  take  me 
I  will  go  alone  to  the  land  of  the  white  men;  I 
have  no  place  else  to  go." 

The  man's  jaw  squared,  his  eyes  narrowed,  and 

the  low,  level  tones  of  his  voice  cut  upon  the 

silence  in  words  of  cold  authority: 
17 


258  The  Promise 

"We  are  going  back  to-night.  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta 
will  believe  me.  She  is  very  old  and  very  wise: 
and  she  will  know  that  I  speak  the  truth. " 

The  words  ceased  abruptly,  and  the  two  drew 
closer  together,  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  blanketed 
form  which,  silent  as  a  shadow,  glided  from  the 
bushes  and  stood  motionless  before  them. 

Within  an  arm's  reach,  in  the  dull,  red  glow, 
the  somber  figure  stood  contemplating  the  pair 
through  beady,  black  eyes,  that  glowed  ominously 
in  the  half-light. 

Slowly,  deliberately,  a  clawlike  hand  was  with- 
drawn from  a  fold  of  the  blanket,  and  the  feeble 
rays  of  the  fire  glinted  weakly  upon  the  cold,  gray 
steel  of  a  polished  blade. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THE  PROMISE 

The  silent,  shadowy  figure  swayed  toward  Bill 
Carmody,  who  met  the  stabbing  glare  of  the  black 
eyes  with  the  steady  gaze  of  his  gray  ones.  For 
long,  tense  moments  their  e3res  held,  while  the  girl 
watched  breathlessly. 

Raising  the  blade  high  above  her  head,  the  old 
squaw  brought  it  crashing  upon  a  rock  at  Car- 
mody's  feet.  There  was  the  sharp  ring  of  tempered 
steel,  and  upon  the  pine-needles  lay  the  broken 
blade,  and  beyond  the  rock  the  hilt,  with  a  scant 
inch  of  blade  protruding  at  the  guard. 

Stooping,  the  old  woman  picked  up  the  two 
pieces  of  the  broken  sheath-knife,  and,  handing 
the  hilt  gravely  to  the  astonished  man  carefully 
returned  the  blade  to  her  blanket.  She  pointed 
a  long,  skinny  finger  at  Bill,  and  the  withered  lips 
moved. 

"You  are  the  one  good  white  man,"  she  said. 
"I,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  the  daughter  of  Kas-ka-tan, 
the  chief,  have  spoken.  I — who,  since  the  death 
of  Lacombie,  have  said  'there  is  no  good  white 
man' — was  wrong,  and  the  words  were  a  lie  in  my 

259 


260  The  Promise 

mouth.  In  your  eyes  I  have  read  it.  You  have 
the  good  eye — the  eye  of  Lacombie,  who  is  dead. 

"  I  have  followed  upon  the  trail  of  my  daughter, 
thinking  it  was  in  your  heart  to  meet  her  here 
and  carry  her  to  her  ruin  in  the  land  of  the  white 
man.  With  this  blade  I  would  have  killed  you — 
for  all  men  die — would  have  followed  and  killed 
you  in  the  land  of  your  people.  But  now  I  know 
that  your  heart  is  good.  I  have  broken  the 
knife. 

"You  will  keep  the  hilt,  and  when  you  are  in 
trouble,  in  need,  in  want  of  a  friend,  you  will  send 
me  this  hilt,  and  I,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  the  daughter 
of  Kas-ka-tan,  the  chief,  will  come  to  you. " 

Her  eyes  rolled  upward  as  though  seeking 
among  the  tiny,  far-winking  stars  the  words  of 
some  half-forgotten  ritual,  and  her  voice  rose  in  a 
weird,  hesitating  chant: 

"Through  the  snows  of  Winter, 

Through  the  heat  of  Summer, 

Across  high  Mountains, 

Over  broad  Waters, 

Braving  lean  Want, 

Scorning  fat  Plenty, 

Nor  turning  aside 

From  the  fang  of  Wolf, 

From  the  forked  arrows  of  Lightning, 

From  the  mighty  voice  of  Thunder, 

From  the  hot  breath  of  Fire, 

From  the  rush  of  Waters, 

From  the  sting  of  Frost. 


The  Promise  261 

Nor  lingering  to  the  call  of  Love, 

Nor  heeding  the  words  of  Hate. 

In  the  face  of  Sickness, 

In  defiance  of  Death 

Will  I  come 

That  you  may  know  I  am  your  Friend. 

Hear  all  ye  Spirits  and  Devils  that  rule  the  World, 

And  sit  upon  the  High  Places  of  the  Great  World, 

This  is  my  Vow ! 

Should  my  feet  lag  upon  the  Trail, 

Should  my  heart  turn  to  Water, 

Should  I  forget — 

So  that  in  the  time  of  my  friend's  need 

I  answer  not  his  call: 

Then,  upon  my  head — upon  the  heads  of  my  children 

— and  their  children 
Shall   descend  the  Curse — the  Great  Curse  of  the 

Yaga  Tah! 
The  Man-Who-Lies-Hid-in-the-Sky !" 

The  quavering  chant  ceased,  and  the  undimmed 
old  eyes  looked  again  into  the  face  of  the  man. 

"And  because  you  are  good,"  she  went  on, 
"and  because  you  have  heard  the  vow,  when  this 
broken  blade  comes  to  your  hand  you  will  know 
that  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  the  daughter  of  Kas-ka-tan, 
the  chief,  in  the  last  extremity  of  her  need,  is 
calling  you. 

"And  because  you  are  strong  and  brave  and 
have  the  good  eye — you  will  come.  And  no 
people  of  the  earth,  and  nothing  that  is  upon  the 
earth,  nor  of  the  earth,  shall  prevent  you.  I  have 
spoken. " 


262  The  Promise 

Bill  Carmody  listened  in  awed  silence  until  the 
old  woman  finished. 

"I,  whom  you  choose  to  regard  as  the  one  good 
white  man,"  he  replied  with  a  dignity  matching 
her  own,  "will  one  day  prove  my  friendship. 
Upon  sight  of  the  fragment  of  blade  I  will  come. 

"No  people  of  the  earth,  and  nothing  that  is 
upon  the  earth,  nor  of  the  earth,  shall  prevent  me 
— and  one  day  you  will  know  that  my  words  are 
true." 

He  raised  his  hand  and,  gazing  upward,  repeated 
the  words  of  the  strange  chant.  At  their  con- 
clusion he  gazed  steadily  into  the  face  of  the  old 
squaw. 

"This  is  tlie  promise"  he  said  gravely.  "I 
have  spoken. " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  NEW  BOSS 

The  twilight  of  late  autumn  darkened  the  land- 
scape as  Bill  Carmody  found  himself  once  again 
at  the  edge  of  the  tiny  clearing  surrounding  the 
cabin  of  Daddy  Dunnigan. 

Through  the  window,  in  the  yellow  lamplight 
of  the  interior,  he  could  see  the  form  of  the  old 
man  as  he  hobbled  back  and  forth  between  the 
stove  and  the  table. 

Remembering  Creed,  Bill  feared  the  effect  upon 
the  old  man  should  he  present  himself  suddenly  at 
the  door.  Advancing  into  the  clearing,  he  whis- 
tled. Daddy  Dunnigan  paused,  frying-pan  in 
hand,  and  peered  futilely  out  of  the  window. 
Again  Bill  whistled  and  watched  as  the  other 
returned  the  pan  to  the  stove  and  opened  the  door. 

"Come  on  in  out  av  that,  ye  shpalpeen!" 
called  Dunnigan.  "Ut's  toime  ye  be  comin'  back 
to  let  th'   owld  man  know  how  ye're  farm' !" 

Bill   grasped   the   extended   hand   and   peered 

into  the  twinkling  eyes  of  the  old  Irishman. 

"Well,  daddy,  you  don't  seem  much  surprised. " 

263 


264  The  Promise 

"Oi  know'd  ye'd  be  along  wan  av  these  days, 
but  ye  tuk  yer  own  toime  about  ut. " 

"How  did  you  know  I  wasn't  drowned  in  the 
river? 

"Sur-re,  Oi  know'd  ye  wuz — didn't  Ci  see  ye  go 
undher  th'  logs  wid  me  own  eyes?  An'  didn't 
th'  jam  go  rippin'  an'  tearin'  into  th'  rapids? 
An'  c'd  on-ny  man  live  t'rough  th'  loike  av  that? 
Oi  know'd  ye  wuz  dead — till  Oi  seed  Creed.  Thin 
Oi  know'd  ye  wuzn't.  But  Moncrossen  don't 
know  ut — nor  on-ny  wan  ilse,  ondly  me.  Oi'd 
'a'  gone  to  hunt  ye,  ondly  Oi  know'd  phwin  th' 
toime  suited  ye  ye'd  come  here;  so  Ci  waited. 

"Set  by  now  er  th'  grub'll  be  cowld.  They'll 
be  toime  fer  palaverin'  afther. " 

When  the  dishes  had  been  washed  and  returned 
to  their  shelves  the  two  seated  themselves  and 
lighted  their  pipes. 

"You  say  Creed  returned  to  Hilarity  and  told 
of  having  seen  me?"  asked  Bill. 

"Well,  he  did— an'  he  didn't,"  replied  the  old 
man  slowly.  "Ut's  loike  this:  Along  in  July,  ut 
wuz,  Moncrossen  an'  his  gang  av  bur-rd's-eye 
pirates  come  roarin'  out  av  th'  woods  huntin'  fer 
Creed.  They'd  wint  in  be  th'  river,  but  come  out 
be  th'  tote-road,  an'  mad  clean  t'rough  to  th' 
gizzard.  No  wan  hadn't  seed  um,  an'  they  clum 
aboord  th'  thrain,  cursin'  an'  swearin'  vingince 
on  Creed  phwin  they  caught  um. 

"Thin,  maybe  it's  two  wakes  afther,  we  wuz 
settin'  in  Burrage's  phwin  th'  dure  bust  open,  an' 


The  New  Boss  265 

* 

in  come  Rad  Cranston  loike  th'  divil  wuz  afther 
um. 

"'They's  a  woild  man,'  he  yells,  'come  out  av 
th'  woods,  an'  he's  tearin'  things  up  in  Creed's 
cabin ! ' 

"Hod  picks  up  a  cleaver  an'  makes  fer  th'  dure, 
wid  us  follyin'  um,  afther  providin'  oursilves  wid 
what  utinsils  wuz  layin'  handy — a  scythe  here 
an'  an  axe  there,  an'  some  wan  ilse  wid  a  pitchfork. 
Rad  brung  up  lasht  wid  a  sixteen-pound  posht- 
maul,  bein'  in  no  hurry  at  all  fer  another  luk. 

"Trut'  is,  none  av  us  wuz  in  no  great  hurry — 
Creed's  woman  havin'  cashed  his  pay-check  an' 
skipped  out — but  at  lasht  we  come  to  phwere  we 
c'd  see  th'  place,  an'  sure  enough  th'  dure  shtood 
open  an'  insoide  come  a  racket  av  shmashin' 
furniture  an'  yellin'  'tw'd  done  proud  to  camp- 
meetin'  salvation. 

"Thin  come  a  foine  loud  rattle  av  glass,  an'  out 
t'rough  a  windie  come  th'  half  av  a  chair,  follyed 
be  a  len'th  av  shtovepoipe  an'  a  grane  glass 
wather-pitcher. 

"Fer  me  own  part,  Oi'd  seed  such  loike  brick-a- 
brack  befoor,  an'  besides  Oi  remimbered  a  dhrink 
Oi  hadn't  tuk  earlier  in  th'  evenin',  so  Oi  shtarted 
workin'  me  way  to  th'  back  av  th'  crowd,  th' 
bether  some  wan  ilse  c'd  see. 

"Oi'd  no  more  thin  tur-rned  around  phwin 
wid  a  whoop,  'tw'd  wake  th'  dead,  out  t'rough  th' 
windie  come  th'  domnedest-lukin'  cryther  this 
side  av  Borneo,  a  wavin'  over  his  head  wan  av  th' 


266  The  Promise 

> 

owld  lady  Creed's  rid  cotton  table-cloths — an* 
niver  another  stitch  to  his  name  but  a  leather  belt 
wid  about  six  inches  av  pants  a  hangin'  onto  ut, 
an'  a  pair  av  corked  boots. 

"Phwin  Oi  shtar-rted  from  Burrage's  Oi  laid 
holt  av  a  man's-size  crowbar,  but  at  that  minit  th' 
thing  Oi  helt  in  me  hand  hiked  about  th'  heft  av  a 
tinpinny  nail.  Be  that  toime  all  th'  others  wuz 
av  loike  moind  to  me.  They  wuz  considerable 
crowdin',  an',  bein'  crippled,  Oi  dhropped  me 
crowbar  an'  laid  a  good  holt  on  th'  tail  av  Hod's 
coat. 

"Th'  shtore  wuz  clost  by,  an'  we  had  a  good 
shtart;  but  th'  thing  that  wuz  afther  us  wuz 
thravelin'  loight  an'  in  foorty-fut  leps. 

"'Twuz  a  good  race,  an'  wan  Oi  wanted  to  win; 
but,  owin'  to  th'  unyversal  willin'ness  av  th' 
crowd  to  get  into  th'  shtore,  we  plugged  up  th' 
dureway,  an'  befoor  we  c'd  get  unstuck  th'  thing 
wuz  onto  us,  gibberin'  an'  jabberin'  an'  screamin' 
an'  laughin'  all  to  wunst. 

"Ut  tuk  eight  av  us  to  howld  um  whilst  Bur- 
rage  toied  um  hand  an'  fut,  an'  phwin  we'd  dhrug 
um  into  th'  shtore  we  seed  'twuz  Creed  hissilf. 
'Twuz  two  days  befoor  th'  sheriff  come  fer  um, 
an'  in  th'  mane  toime  he'd  gabble  an'  yell  about  th' 
greener  comin'  afther  um,  an'  how  he  come  out  av 
th'  wather,  an'  so  on. 

"Th*  rist  think  ut's  th'  shtayin'  alone  made  um 
loony,  but  Oi  put  two  an'  two  togither — here's 
Moncrossen  losht  his  bur-rd's-eye  an'  Creed  scairt 


The  New  Boss  267 

witless  be  th'  soight  av  th'  greener — phwat's  th' 
answer? 

"Phy,  th'  b'y  ain't  dead  at  all.  Some  ways  he 
got  out  av  th'  river,  scairt  th'  dayloights  out  av 
Creed,  an'  made  off  wid  th'  bur-rd's-eye.  Am  Oi 
roight?" 

"Exactly!"  exclaimed  Bill. 

"Oi  know'd  ut!  Ye've  th'  luck  av  Captain 
Fronte's  own  silf !  That  come  out  av  ivery  shcrape 
wid  his  loife,  save  th'  lasht  wan,  an'  he  w'd  thin  av 
a  domned  nayger  shell  hadn't  bust  ag'in'  his  ribs 
— but  that's  toimes  gone." 

"I  wonder  where  Moncrossen  is  now?" 

"Right  here  in  Hilarity;  him  an'  his  crew 
unloaded  yisterday  fer  to  shtar-rt  fer  th'  camp 
in  th'  marnin'." 

"I  think  I'll  just  let  the  boss  believe  I'm  still  in 
the  river  until  after  I  have  had  a  talk  with  Apple- 
ton.  By  the  way,  daddy,  how  are  you  fixed  for 
money?" 

"Sure,  Oi  got  more  money  thin  a  man  ought 
to  have — money  in  th'  bank  an'  money  in  me 
pocket — take  ut  an'  welcome" — he  tossed  a  thick 
wallet  onto  the  table — "ondly  ye  won't  have  to  go 
to  Minneapolis. 

"Owld  man  Appleton's  over  to  Creighton, 
eighty  moiles  wesht  av  here,  sooperintindin'  a  new 
camp  on  Blood  River,  wan  hundred  an'  tin  moiles 
above  Moncrossen' s.  Fallon's  wid  um,  an' 
Shtromberg,  an'  a  lot  more  av  th'  good  min  that's 
toired  av  worrkin'  undher  Moncrossen." 


268  The  Promise 

"He  is  not  bossing  the  camp  himself !"  exclaimed 
Bill. 

"No,  but  he's  got  to  kape  an  eye  on't.  Fallon 
'11  be  a  kind  av  shtraw  boss  an'  luk  afther  th' 
wor-rk,  but  th'  owld  man'U  have  to  figger  th' 
toime  an'  th'  scale — Fallon  ain't  got  no  aggicatin'. 

"Tis  roight  glad  Oi'm  thinkin'  th'  owld  man'll 
be  to  lay  eyes  on  ye.  They  say  he  wuz  all  bruk 
up  phwin  he  heerd  ye  wuz  dhr-rounded. " 

Bill's  visit  to  Hilarity  was  known  to  no  one  ex- 
cept Daddy  Dunnigan,  and  the  following  evening 
after  Moncrossen's  departure  for  the  woods,  the 
two  proceeded  to  the  railway  by  a  circuitous  route. 

Unobserved,  he  swung  aboard  the  caboose  of 
the  local  freight-train  which  stood  at  the  tiny 
platform,   discharging  goods. 

"He'll  be  afther  makin'  ye  boss  av  th'  new 
camp,"  opined  the  old  man  from  his  position 
beside  a  pile  of  ties.  "An'  av  ye  nade  a  cook- 
just  dhrop  me  a  loine  an'  Oi'll  come. " 

"I   haven't   got   the   job   yet,"    laughed   Bill. 

"But  ye  will.  Owld  Appleton'll  be  glad 
enough  not  havin'  to  come  thrapsin'  into  th' 
woods  ivery  month  or  so  durin'  th'  winther. " 
The  old  man  leaned  forward  upon  his  crutch,  and 
with  pathetic  eagerness  scanned  the  face  of  the 
younger  man. 

"Me  b'y,"  he  said,  "av  yer  plans  is  changed — 
wor-rd  from  th'  gir-rl,  or  what  not,  that'll  be 
takin'  ye  back  to  Noo  Yor-rk — ye'll  take  me  wid 
ve? 


The  New  Boss  269 

"Oi  may  be  a  bit  owld,  but  Oi'm  as  good  as  iver 
Oi  wuz.  Oi  c'd  lear-rn  to  run  yer  otymobile  er 
take  care  av  th'  harses,  er  moind  th'  babies,  ut 
makes  no  difference;  for  whilst  a  McKim  lives 
owld  Dunnigan  belongs  to  luk  afther  um. " 

"Never  fear,  daddy!"  cried  Bill,  as  the  train 
jerked  into  motion.  "Now  that  we've  found 
each  other,  we'll  stick  together  until  the  end." 
And  he  stood  silent  upon  the  steps  of  the  caboose 
until  the  figure  of  the  old  Irishman  blended  into 
the  background. 

In  the  front  room  of  the  one-story  building  with 
its  undeceptive  two-story  front,  where  Applet  on 
had  established  his  headquarters  in  the  little  town 
of  Creighton,  the  lumber  magnate  sat  talking  with 
Irish  Fallon. 

The  tote-road  leading  to  the  new  camp  had 
been  pushed  to  completion,  and  Appleton  was 
giving  Fallon  some  final  instructions. 

"  I  must  leave  for  Minneapolis  in  the  morning, " 
he  said.  "  Do  the  best  }rou  can,  and  I  will  run  up 
as  often  as  possible. " 

"Oi'll  do  ut,  sorr, "  replied  Irish.  "Oi  c'n  lay 
down  th'  logs  all  roight ;  th'  throuble'll  be  wid  th' 
figgers.  If  ondly  me  frind,  Bill,  wuz  here — sure, 
there  wuz  th'  foine  lad!" 

Appleton  pulled  at  his  gray  mustache  and 
regarded  the  other  thoughtfully. 

"You  knew  him  well — this   Bill?"   he  asked. 

"Oi  wuz  th'  fur-rst  whoite  man  he  seen  in  th' 
woods  th'  day  he  stud  knee-dape  in  th'  shnow  av 


270  The  Promise 

th'  tote-road,  lukin'  down  at  th'  carcass  av  D'ab- 
lish.  An'  from  that  toime  on  till  he  wint  down 
undher  th'  logs  we  wuz  loike  two  brothers — ondly 


more  so." 


"Pretty  good  man,  wTas  he?" 

"A-a-h,  there  wuz  a  man!"  Fallon's  big  fist 
banged  noisily  upon  the  table,  and  his  blue  eyes 
lighted  as  he  faced  his  employer.  "Misther 
Appleton,  ye  losht  a  man  phwin  th'  greener  wint 
undher.  Fearin'  nayther  God,  man,  nor  th'  divil, 
he  come  into  th'  woods,  an'  in  wan  sayson  lear-rnt 
more  about  logs  thin  th'  most  av  us'll  iver  know. " 

"Moncrossen  liked  him — spoke  very  highly  of 
him,  and  that  is  unusual  with  Moncrossen." 
Fallon's  breath  whistled  through  his  teeth  at  the 
words. 

11  Loiked  um,  did  he?  Sure  he  loiked  um — loike 
a  rabbit  loikes  a  wolf!" 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  punctuating  his 
remarks  with  stabs  of  a  huge  forefinger  upon  the 
other's  knee. 

"  Misther  Appleton,  Moncrossen  hated  um!  An' 
ivery  man  along  th'  river  that  day  knows  that  av 
ut  wuzn't  fer  Moncrossen,  th'  greener' d  be  livin' 
this  minit — ondly  we  can't  pr-roove  ut.  Th' 
boss  hated  um  because  he  wuz  a  bether  man — 
because  he  know'd  he  wuz  a  clane  man,  wid  a 
foightin'  hear-rt  an'  two  fists  an'  th'  guts  to  carry 
um  t'rough.  He  chilled  th'  har-rt  av  th'  boss 
th'  fur-rst  noight  he  seen  um,  an'  from  thin  on  th' 
fear  wuz  upon  um  fer  th'  bird's-eye." 


The  New  Boss  271 

"The  bird's-eye?"  inquired  Appleton.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

Fallon  hesitated;  his  enthusiasm  had  carried 
him  further  than  he  had  intended.  He  gazed 
out  of  the  window,  wondering  how  to  proceed, 
when  his  eyes  fastened  upon  a  large,  heavily 
bearded  man  who  approached  rapidly  down  the 
wooden  sidewalk,  a  folded  mackinaw  swung 
carelessly  across  the  fringed  arm  of  his  buckskin 
shirt. 

The  iron  latch  rattled;  the  man  entered,  closed 
the  door  behind  him,  and,  turning,  faced  the  two 
with  a  smile.  For  a  long  moment  the  men  gazed 
at  the  newcomer  in  silence;  then  Fallon's  chair 
crashed  backward  upon  the  floor  as  the  Irishman 
leaped  to  his  feet. 

"Thim  eyes!"  he  cried,  throwing  a  huge  arm 
across  the  man's  shoulders  and  shaking  him  vio- 
lently in  his  excitement.  "Bill!  Bill!  Fer  th' 
love  av  God,  tell  me  'tis  yersilf!  Ye  damn' 
shcoundril,  ain't  ye  dhrounded  at  all,  at  all? 
An'  phwere  ye  ben  kapin'  yersilf?" 

Bill  laughed  aloud  and  wrung  Appleton's  hand. 

The  lumberman  had  risen  to  his  feet,  staring 
incredulously  into  the  other's  face  while  he  re- 
peated over  and  over  again : ' '  My  boy !     My  boy ! ' ' 

Fallon  danced  about,  waving  his  arms  and 
shouting:  "Th'  new  camp'll  go  t'rough  hell 
a  whoopin'!  Bill'll  be  boss,  an'  th'  min'll  tear 
out   th'   bone   to   bate   Moncrossen!" 

Order  was  finally  restored,  and  the  three  seated 


272  The  Promise 

themselves  while  Bill  recounted  his  adventurers. 
Appleton's  brow  clouded  as  he  learned  the  details 
of  the  bird's-eye  plot. 

" So  that's  the  way  he  worked  it?"  he  exclaimed. 
"I  knew  that  there  was  some  bird's-eye  in  the 
timber,  and  that  I  was  not  getting  it.  But  I  laid 
it  to  outside  thieves — never  supposed  one  of  my 
own  foremen  was  double-crossing  me. 

"That  is  Moncrossen's  finish !"  he  added  grimly. 
"I  need  him  this  winter.  Too  many  contracts  to 
afford  to  do  without  him.  In  the  spring,  though, 
there  will  be  an  accounting;  and  mark  my  words, 
he  will  get  what  is  coming  to  him !" 

"What  next— for  me?"  asked  Bill. 

Appleton  smiled. 

"I  think  Fallon  has  disposed  of  }'our  case," 
he  replied.  "My  boy,  I  want  you  to  take  this 
new  camp  and  get  out  logs.  I  won't  set  any  specific 
amount,  I  will  tell  you  this:  I  must  have  twenty- 
five  million  feet  out  of  the  Blood  River  country 
this  winter.  You  are  the  first  inexperienced  man 
I  have  ever  placed  in  charge  of  a  camp.  I  don't 
know  what  you  can  do.  I'll  take  the  chance. 
It's  up  to  you. 

"My  camps  are  run  without  interference  from 
the  office.  Results  count  with  me — not  methods. 
Feed  your  crew  all  they  can  eat — of  the  best  you 
can  get.  Knock  a  man  down  first  and  argue  with 
him  afterward.  Let  them  know  who  is  boss,  and 
you  will  have  no  trouble.  Don't  be  afraid  to  spend 
money,  but  get  out  the  logs!" 


The  New  Boss  273 

The  following  morning  the  new  foreman  stood 
upon  the  platform  of  the  station  as  the  heavy, 
vestibuled  Imperial  Limited  ground  to  a  stop, 
under  special  orders  to  take  on  the  great  lumber- 
man. 

"So-long,  Bill!"  Appleton  called.  "See  you 
next  month.  Bringing  a  party  into  the  woods  for 
a  deer-hunt.  May  put  up  at  your  camp  for  a 
couple  of  weeks." 

The  train  pulled  out  for  the  East,  leaving  Bill 
Carmody  gazing,  just  a  shade  wistfully,  perhaps,  at 
the  contented-looking  men  and  women  who  flashed 
past  upon  the  rich  plush  cushions. 

But  as  the  last  coach  passed  he  squared  his 
shoulders  with  a  jerk  and  turned  quickly  away. 

xS 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

A    HUNTING    PARTY 

H.  D.  Appleton,  millionaire  lumberman,  sighed 
contentedly  as  he  added  cream  to  his  after-dinner 
coffee.  He  glanced  toward  his  wife,  who  was 
smiling  at  him  across  the  table. 

"Oh,  you  can  drink  yours  black  if  you  want  to, 
little  girl,"  he  grinned;  "but,  remember  'way  back 
when  we  were  first  married  and  I  was  bossing 
camps  for  old  Jimmie  Ferguson,  and  we  lived  in 
log  shacks  'way  up  in  the  big  woods,  I  used  to  say 
if  we  ever  got  where  we  could  have  cream  for  our 
coflee,  I'd  have  nothing  else  to  ask  for? 

"Well,  to  this  day,  drinking  cream  in  my  coffee 
is  my  idea  of  the  height  of  luxury.  This  is  all 
right,  and  I  enjoy  it,  too,  I  suppose."  He  indi- 
cated with  a  wave  of  his  black  cigar  the  rich  furnish- 
ings, the  heavy  plate  and  cut-glass  that  adorned 
the  dining-room.  "But,  somehow,  nothing  makes 
me  feel  successful  like  pouring  real  cream  into 
my  coffee." 

The  gray-haired  "little  girl"  laughed  happily. 

"You  never  have  quite  grown  up,  Hubert," 
she  replied.       "Did  you  have  a  hard  trip,  dear? 

274 


A  Hunting  Party  275 

The  three  weeks  you  have  been  away  have  seemed 
like  three  months  to  me." 

"No,  no!  I  had  a  good  trip.  It  looked  rather 
hopeless  at  first,  trying  to  establish  a  new  camp, 
with  no  one  really  capable  of  running  it ;  but  just 
at  the  last  minute —  You  remember  the  man  I  told 
you  about  last  fall — the  young  fellow  who  throttled 
that  scoundrel  after  the  wreck  in  the  Chicago  rail- 
road yards,  and  who  refused  to  tell  me  his  name 
until  after  he  had  made  good?" 

"Yes — he  was  drowned  last  spring,  wasn't  he? 
Poor  boy,  I  have  often  wondered  who  he  was — a 
gentleman,  you  said?" 

"By  gad,  he's  more  than  a  gentlemen — he's  a 
man  !  And  he  wasn't  drowned  at  all.  Got  rescued 
somehow  by  an  old  squaw  and  her  daughter.  His 
leg  was  broken,  and  when  he  got  well  he  stayed 
in  the  woods  and  looked  after  the  camp  all 
summer;  and  not  only  that,  he  recovered  fifty-two 
bird's-eye  maple  logs  that  had  been  stolen  by  some 
of  my  own  men. 

"He  found  me  in  Creighton,  and  I  made  him 
boss  of  the  new  camp.  He's  a  winner,  and  the 
men  will  work  for  him  till  they  drop." 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Hubert,"  said  Mrs.  Appleton. 
"Mr.  Sheridan  called  up  a  day  or  two  ago  and 
wanted  to  know  when  you  would  return.  He  said 
you  and  he  had  planned  a  deer-hunt  this  fall." 

"Yes;  we'll  go  about  the  first  of  the  month. 
It's  been  a  good  while  since  Ross  Sheridan  and  I 
have  had  a  hunt  together;  not  since  the  old  days 


276  The  Promise 

on  the  Crow  Wing.  Remember  the  time  Ross 
and  I  got  lost,  and  nearly  scared  you  womenfolks 
to  death?" 

"  Indeed  I  do.  I  never  will  forget  that  blizzard, 
and  those  three  awful  days — we  had  been  married 
only  six  months,  and  Mary  Sheridan  and  I  were 
the  only  women  in  the  camp. 

"  I  remember  how  good  all  the  men  were  to  us — 
telling  us  you  were  in  no  danger,  and  not  to  worry — 
and  all  during  the  storm  they  were  searching  the 
woods  in  squads.  Oh,  it  was  awful !  And  yet — " 
Her  voice  trailed  into  silence,  and  she  stared  a  long 
time  into  the  open  fire  that  blazed  in  the  huge 
fireplace. 

"And  yet,  what,  little  girl,"  asked  Appleton, 
smiling  fondly  upon  her — "what  are  you  thinking 
about?     Come,  tell  me." 

She  turned  her  eyes  toward  him,  and  the  man 
detected  a  wistful  look  in  them. 

"I  was  thinking,  dear,  of  how  happy  we  were 
those  three  years  we  spent  'way  up  in  the  timber 
while  you  were  getting  your  start.  Not  that  we 
haven't  always  been  happy,"  she  hastened  to  add, 
"because  we  have.  We  couldn't  have  been 
happier  unless — unless — some  children  had  come. 
But,  dear,  those  days  when  we  were  so  poor  and 
had  to  work  so  hard,  and  every  dollar  counted — 
and  we  had  to  do  without  things  we  both  wanted, 
and  sometimes  things  we  really  needed. 

"And,  oh,  Hubert  dear,  do  you  remember  the 
organ?     And  how  long  it  took  us  to  save  up  the 


A  Hunting  Party  277 

sixty  dollars?  And  how  I  cried  half  the  night  for 
pure  joy  when  you  brought  it  home  on  the  ox-sled? 
And  how  I  used  to  play  in  the  evenings,  and  the 
Sheridans  were  there',  and  the  men  would  come  and 
listen,  and  their  big  voices  would  join  in  the 
singing,  and  how  sometimes  a  man  would  draw  a 
rough  sleeve  across  his  eyes  when  he  thought  no 
one  was  looking — do  you  remember?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes — of  course  I  remember!"  The 
lumberman's  voice  was  suspiciously  gruff.  "  Seems 
almost  like  another  world."  His  wife  suddenly 
stretched  her  arms  towards  the  open  fire: 

"Oh,  Hubert,  I  want  to  go  back!" 

"What?" 

"Yes,  dear,  just  once  more."  Appleton  saw 
the  tears  in  her  eyes.  "I  want  to  smell  the  fra- 
grance of  the  pine  woods — and  sit  on  the  thick 
pine-needles — and  cook  over  an  open  fire !  Bacon 
and  trout  and  coffee — yes,  and  no  real  cream, 
either!"  She  smiled  at  him  through  her  tears. 
"Canned  milk,  and  maybe  some  venison  steaks. 

"I  want  to  borrow  your  pocket-knife  and  dig 
out  spruce  gum  and  chew  it,  with  the  little  bits 
of  bark  in  it,"  she  went  on,  "and  I  won't  promise 
not  to  'pry,'  with  it,  either.  I  hope  I  do  break 
the  blade !  Do  you  remember  that  day,  and  how 
mad  you  were? 

"I  want  to  see  the  men  crowd  into  the  grub- 
shack,  and  hear  the  sound  of  the  axes  and  saws 
and  the  rattle  of  chains  and  the  crashing  of  big 
trees.     I  want  to  see  the  logs  on  the  rollways;  and, 


278  The  Promise 

Hubert,  you  won't  think  I'm  awful,  will  you, 
dear,  but  I  want  to — just  once  more  in  my  life — I 
want  to  hear  a  big  man  swear!" 

H.  D.  Appleton  stared  at  his  wife  in  blank 
amazement,  and  then,  throwing  back  his  head, 
roared  with  laughter. 

"Well,  you  sure  will,  little  girl,  if  you  try  to  slip 
any  canned  milk  into  my  coffee!" 

His  wife  regarded  him  gravely. 

"I  am  not  joking,  Hubert.  Oh,  can't  you  see? 
Just  once  more  I  must  have  a  taste  of  the  old,  hard, 
happy  days — can't  I?" 

"Why,  Margaret,  you  don't  really  mean  that 
you  want  to  go  into  the  woods — seriously?" 

"Yes,  I  do  mean  just  exactly  that — seriously!" 

Appleton  tugged  at  his  mustache  and  puckered 
his  forehead. 

"We  might  make  up  a  party,"  he  mused. 
"I'll  speak  to  Ross  in  the  morning." 

The  little  gray-haired  woman  stepped  lightly 
around  the  table,  and,  seating  herself  on  his  lap, 
captured  his  big  fingers  in  her  own. 

"How  many  times  must  I  tell  ycu  not  to  pull 
your  mustache,  dear?  Now,  listen;  I  have  a  plan. 
There  will  be  Mary  Sheridan  and  Ross  and  Ethel 
Manton — you  know  she  promised  us  a  visit  this 
fall,  and  I  expect  her  any  day  now.  A  trip  into 
the  woods  will  do  her  a  world  of  good,  poor  girl. 
She  has  had  lots  of  responsibility  thrust  upon  her 
since  brother  Fred  died,  with  young  Charlie  to 
look  out  for,  and  the  care  of  that  big  house. 


A  Hunting  Party  279 

"Mrs.  Potter,  you  know  she  lives  next  door  to 
Ethel,  writes  me  that  she  does  not  believe  the  girl 
is  happy — that  this  St.  Ledger,  or  whatever  his 
name  is,  that  she  is  reported  engaged  to,  is  not  the 
kind  of  a  man  for  Ethel  at  all — and,  that  she 
hasn't  seemed  herself  for  a  year — some  unhappy 
love  affair — the  man  was  a  scamp,  or  something — 
so  this  trip  will  be  just  what  she  needs.  Charlie 
will  be  with  her,  of  course,  and  we  can  invite  that 
young  Mr.  Holbrooke;  you  have  met  him,  that 
nice  young  man — the  VanNesses'  nephew. 

"We  will  go  away  up  into  the  big  woods  where 
you  men  can  hunt  to  your  heart's  delight ;  and  we 
women  will  stay  around  the  camp  and  do  the 
cooking  and  smell  the  woods  and  chew  spruce  gum. 
Oh,  Hubert,  won't  it  be  just  grand?" 

Appleton  caught  something  of  his  wife's  en- 
thusiasm. 

"It  sure  will,  little  girl!     But  what's  he  for?" 

"What  is  who  for?" 

"This  Holbrooke  person.  Where  does  he  come 
in  on  this?" 

"Why,  for  Ethel,  of  course!  Goose!  Don't 
you  see  that  if  Ethel  is  not  happy — if  she  is  not 
really  in  love  with  this  St.  Ledger — and  she  spends 
two  or  three  weeks  in  the  same  camp  with  a  nice 
young  man  like  Mr.  Holbrooke — well,  there's  no 
place  like  the  woods  for  romance,  dear;  you  see,  I 
know.     And   he   has   money,    too,"    she   added. 

Appleton  suddenly  lifted  his  wife  to  her  feet 
and  began  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 


280  The  Promise 

"Money!"  he  exclaimed.  "He  never  earned  a 
cent  in  his  life." 

"But  he  is  the  VanNess  heir!" 

"Old  VanNess  made  his  money  selling  corsets 
and  ribbons." 

"Why,  dear,  what  difference  does  that  make? 
I  am  sure  the  VanNesses  are  among " 

"I  don't  care  who  they're  among,  or  what  they're 
among!"  interrupted  her  husband.  "We  don't 
want  any  niece  of  ours  marrying  ribbons.  Hold 
on  a  minute,  let  me  think.  By  gad,  I've  got  a 
scheme!" 

He  continued  to  pace  up  and  down  the  length 
of  the  room,  puffing  shortly  upon  his  cigar  and 
emitting  emphatic  grunts  of  satisfaction. 

"I've  got  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  you're  bound 
to  marry  Ethel  off  we  will  give  her  the  chance  to 
marry  a  man.  Go  ahead  and  make  up  the  party, 
but  leave  ribbons  out  of  it.  We  will  let  Ethel  rest 
up  for  a  few  days  and  then  we  will  start — straight 
for  the  new  camp.     There  is  a  man  there. " 

"But,"  objected  his  wife,  "you  know  nothing 
about  him.     You  don't  know  even  his  name." 

"What  difference  does  that  make?  I  know  a 
good  man  when  I  see  one.  I  know  enough  about 
him  to  know  that  he  is  good  enough  for  Ethel  or 
any  other  woman.  And,  if  he  hasn't  got  a  name 
now,  by  gad,  he  is  making  one — up  there  in  the  big 
country!" 

"  But  he  has  no  money. " 

"No  money !     How  much  did  we  have  when  we 


A  Hunting  Party  281 

were  married?  Why,  little  girl,  you  just  got 
through  saying  that  the  happiest  days  we  ever 
spent  were  up  there  in  the  woods  when  money  was 
so  scarce  that  we  knew  the  date  on  every  dollar  we 
owned — and  every  scratch  and  nick  on  them — 
and  the  dimes  and  pennies  too." 

The  little  woman  smiled.  "That  is  true,  Hu- 
bert, but  somehow " 

"Somehow  nothing!  If  we  did  it,  these  two 
can  do  it.  They've  got  a  better  chance  than  we 
had.  I'm  not  going  to  live  forever.  I  need  a 
partner.  I'm  getting  old  enough  to  begin  to  take 
things  easier — to  step  aside  and  let  a  younger 
man  shoulder  the  burden." 

He  threw  his  arm  lovingly  about  his  wife's 
shoulders,  and  drew  her  close.  "We  never  had  a 
son,  sweetheart,"  he  said  gravely,  "but  if  we  had 
I'd  want  him  to  be  just  like  that  boy.  He  is 
making  good." 

Margaret  Appleton  looked  up  into  her  husband's 
eyes. 

"You  haven't  made  many  mistakes,  dear," 
she  whispered.  "I  hope  he  will  make  good — for 
your  sake  and — maybe  for  Ethel's." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

TOLD  ON  THE  TRAIL 

It  was  a  merry  party  that  clambered  into  the 
big  tote-wagcn  in  the  little  town  of  Creighton  one 
morning  in  early  November.  Upon  request  of 
Appleton  and  Sheridan,  two  of  the  road's  heaviest 
lumber  shippers,  a  private  car  had  been  coupled  to 
the  rear  of  the   Imperial  Limited  at  Winnipeg. 

Later  the  big  train  hesitated  at  Hilarity  long 
enough  to  permit  a  half-breed  guide  in  full  hunting 
regalia  to  step  proudly  aboard,  to  the  envy  of  the 
dead  little  town's  assembled  inhabitants.  And 
later  still  the  Limited  stopped  at  Creighton  and 
shunted  the  private  car  onto  a  spur. 

Appleton  promptly  impressed  one  of  his  own 
tote-wagons  which  had  been  sent  to  town  for 
supplies ;  and  before  noon  the  four-horse  team  was 
swung  into  the  tote-road  carrying  the  hunting 
party  into  the  woods. 

Tents,  blankets,  and  robes  had  been  ranged  into 
more  or  less  comfortable  seats  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  party,  while  young  Charlie  Manton 
insisted  upon  climbing  onto  the  high  driver's  seat, 
where  he  wedged  himself  uncomfortably  between 

the  teamster  and  Blood  River  Jack,  the  guide. 

282 


Told  on  the  Trail  283 

From  the  time  the  latter  had  joined  the  party  at 
Hilarity  the  boy  had  stuck  close  to  his  side,  asking 
innumerable  questions  and  listening  with  bated 
breath  to  the  half-breed's  highly  colored  narratives 
in  which  wolves,  bears,  and  Indians  played  the 
important  parts. 

In  the  evening,  when  they  camped  beside  the 
tote-road,  and  he  was  permitted  to  help  with  the 
tents  and  the  fire-wood,  the  youngster  fairly  bris- 
tled with  importance,  and  after  supper  when  the 
whole  party  drew  about  the  great  camp-fire  the 
boy  seated  himself  close  by  the  side  of  the  guide. 

"You  never  told  me  your  name,"  he  ventured. 

"Blood  River  Jack,"  the  man  replied. 

"That's  a  funny  kind  of  a  name,"  puzzled  the 
boy.     "Why  did  they  name  you  that?" 

"Jacques — that  is  my  name.  Blood  River — 
that  is  where  I  live.  It  is  that  my  lodge  is  near 
the  bank  of  the  river  and  in  the  Blood  River 
country  I  hunt  and  lay  my  trap  lines,  and  in  the 
waters  of  the  river  I  fish.     What  is  your  name?" 

"New  York  Charlie,"  unhesitatingly  replied 
the  boy  and  flushed  deeply  at  the  roar  of  laughter 
with  which  the  others  of  the  party  greeted  his 
answer.  But  the  long-haired,  dark-skinned  guide, 
noting  the  angry  flash  of  the  wide,  blue  eyes, 
refrained  from  laughter. 

"That  is  a  good  name,"  he  said  gravely.  "In 
the  land  of  the  white  man  men  are  called  by  the 
name  of  their  fathers.  In  the  woods  it  is  not 
often  so,  except  when  it  be  written  upon  papers. 


284  The  Promise 

The  best  man  in  the  North  is  one  of  whom  men 
know  only  his  first  name.  He  is  M's'u'  Bill — 
The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die. " 

"Why  can't  he  die?"  asked  the  youngster 
eagerly. 

Jacques  shook  his  head. 

"  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  says  'all  men  die,'"  he  replied; 
14  but — did  not  the  chechako  come  into  the  North  in 
the  time  of  a  great  snow,  and  without  rackets 
mush  forty  miles  in  two  days?  Did  he  not  kill 
with  a  knife  Diablesse,  the  werwolf,  whom  all  men 
feared,  and  with  an  axe  chop  in  pieces  the  wolves 
of  her  pack? 

44  Did  he  not  strike  fear  to  the  heart  of  the  great 
Moncrossen  with  a  look  of  his  eye?  And,  with 
three  blows  of  his  fist,  lay  the  mighty  Stromberg 
upon  the  floor  like  a  wet  rag?  Did  he  not  come 
without  hurt  through  the  fire  when  Creed  locked 
him  in  the  burning  shack?  And  did  he  not  go 
down  through  the  terrible  Blood  River  rapids, 
riding  upon  a  log,  and  live,  when  Moncrossen 
ordered  the  breaking  out  of  the  jam  that  he  might 
be  killed  among  the  pounding  logs?  These  are 
the  things  that  kill  men — yet  the  chechako  lives." 

"Gee,  Eth,  think  of  that!"  exclaimed  the  boyt 
turning  toward  his  sister,  who  from  her  place  by  the 
side  of  her  Aunt  Margaret  had  been  an  interested 
listener.  "He  must  be  some  man!  Where  does 
he  live?    Will  we  see  him?" 

Before  the  half-breed  could  reply  Appleton  broke 
in. 


Told  on  the  Trail  285 

"  He  sure  is  some  man  / "  he  exclaimed  enthusias- 
tically. "And  you  will  see  him  about  day  after 
to-morrow  night,  if  we  have  good  luck.  I  don't 
know  about  all  the  adventures  Blood  River  Jack 
mentioned,  but  I  have  heard  of  some  of  them,  and 
I  can  add  the  story  of  the  outwitting  of  a  couple  of 
card-sharps  and  a  fight  in  the  dark,  in  the  cramped 
quarters  of  an  overturned  railway  coach,  in  which 
he  all  but  choked  the  life  out  of  a  human  fiend  who 
was  robbing  the  dead  and  injured. 

"And  I  might  tell  of  another  fight — the  gamest 
fight  of  all — but,  wait  till  you  know  him.  He  is 
foreman  of  the  camp  which  will  be  our  headquart- 
ers for  the  next  two  or  three  weeks." 

"To  hear  them  talk,"  said  Mrs.  Appleton  to 
her  niece,  "one  would  imagine  this  man  a  huge, 
bloodthirsty  ruffian;  but  he  isn't.  Hubert  says 
that  he  is  in  every  respect  a  gentleman. " 

"Yes,"  agreed  her  husband,  "but  one  who  is 
not  afraid  to  get  out  and  work  with  his  two  hands — 
and  work  hard — and  who  has  never  learned  the 
meaning  of  fear.  I  took  a  chance  on  him,  and  he 
has  made  good." 

The  phrase  fell  upon  the  ears  of  the  girl  with  a 
shock.  They  were  the  words  he  had  used,  she 
remembered.  Was  he  making  good — somewhere? 
She  felt  her  heart  go  out  with  a  rush  to  this  big 
man  she  had  never  seen,  and  she  found  herself 
eagerly  looking  forward  to  their  meeting. 

"Oh,  he  must  be  splendid!"  she  exclaimed 
impulsively,  and  her  face  glowed  in  the  play  of 


286  The  Promise 

the  firelight — a  glow  that  faded  almost  to  pallor  at 
the  words  of  the  half-breed. 

"He  has  come  again  into  the  woods?"  he  asked 
quickly.  "  It  is  well.  For  now  Jeanne  need  have 
no  fear.  He  promised  her  that  he  would  return 
again  into  the  North — and  to  her. " 

"What?"  cried  Appleton  in  surprise.  "Who 
is  this  Jeanne?  And  why  should  he  return  to 
her?" 

"She  is  my  sister,"  Jacques  replied  simply. 
"Her  skin  is  white  like  the  skin  of  my  father. 
She  is  beautiful,  and  she  loves  him.  She  helped 
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  to  draw  him  from  the  river,  and 
through  all  the  long  days  and  nights  of  his  sickness 
she  took  care  of  him.  When  he  went  out  of  the 
woods  she  accompanied  him  for  three  days  and 
three  nights  upon  the  trail  to  the  land  of  the  white 
man,  and  he  promised  her  that  he  would  come 
again  into  the  woods  and  protect  her  from  harm. " 

At  a  hurried  glance  from  his  wife  Appleton 
changed  the  subject  abruptly.  "I  wish  to  thunder 
it  would  snow!"  he  exclaimed.  "Hunting  deer 
without  snow  is  like  fishing  without  bait.  You 
might  accidentally  hook  one,  but  it's  a  long 
chance." 

Blood  River  Jack  sniffed  the  air  and  shrugged, 
glancing  upward. 

' '  Plenty  of  snow  in  a  few  days, ' '  he  said.  ' '  May- 
be too  much." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

IN  THE  OFFICE 

The  setting  sun  shone  weak  and  coppery  above 
the  pines  as  the  big  four-horse  tote-team  dashed 
with  a  flourish  into  the  wide  clearing  of  the  new 
camp  on  upper  Blood  River.  The  men  had  not 
yet  "knocked  off,"  and  from  the  impenetrable 
depths  of  the  forest  came  the  ring  of  axes  and 
the  roar  of  crashing  trees. 

In  the  little  blacksmith-shop  a  grimy-faced, 
leather-aproned  man  bent  over  a  piece  of  glowing 
iron  which  he  held  in  long  tongs,  and  the  red  sparks 
radiated  in  showers  as  the  hammer  thumped  dully 
on  the  soft  metal — thumps  sharply  punctuated  by 
the  clean  ring  of  steel  as  the  polished  face  of  the 
tool  bounced  merrily  upon  the  chilled  surface  of 
the  anvil. 

The  feel  of  snow  was  in  the  air  and  over  by  the 
cook-shack  men  were  hauling  fire-wood  on  a  pole- 
drag.  The  team  brought  up  sharply  before  the 
door  of  the  office  which  was  located  at  one  end  of 
a  long,  low  building  of  logs,  the  two  other  rooms  of 
which  contained  stoves,  chairs,  and  a  few  rough 
deal-tables. 

Appleton  leaped  from  the  wagon  and  swung  the 

287 


288  The  Promise 

ladies  lightly  to  the  ground,  while  the  teamster 
and  Blood  River  Jack,  assisted  by  Charlie,  pro- 
ceeded to  unload  the  outfit.  The  lumberman 
pushed  open  the  door  of  the  office  and  glanced 
within.  It  was  empty.  He  called  one  of  the  men 
from  the  cook-shack  and  bade  him  build  a  fire 
in  the  little  air-tight. 

"Well,  H.  D.,  your  man  ain't  an  office  foreman, 
anyhow, "  grinned  Sheridan,  with  a  nod  of  approval 
toward  the  cold  stove. 

Sheridan  was  a  bluff  man  with  a  bristling  red 
mustache — the  kind  that  invariably  chew  upon 
their  cigars  as  they  talk. 

Appleton  turned  to  the  ladies. 

"Make  yourselves  at  home,"  he  said  as  the 
fire  roared  up  the  stove-pipe.  "Ross  and  I  will 
look  over  the  works  a  bit.  Where  is  the  boss?" 
he  asked  of  the  man  who  was  returning  to  the 
wood-pile. 

"Out  in  the  cuttin'  somewheres;  er  me'be  over 
to  the  railways, "  replied  the  man,  laughing.  "  Big 
Bill  he's  out  among  'em  all  the  time. " 

"By  Glory!  H.  D.,  we've  all  got  to  hand  it  to 
you  when  it  comes  to  picking  out  men.  I'd  like 
to  catch  one  of  my  foremen  out  on  the  works  some 
time — I  wouldn't  know  whether  to  fire  him  or 
double  his  wages!" 

Sheridan  mouthed  his  cigar,  and  the  two  turned 
into  a  skidway. 

Appleton  smiled.  He  raised  a  finger  and 
touched  his  eyelid. 


In  the  Office  289 

"It's  the  eye, "  he  said.  "Look  in  a  man's  eye, 
Ross.  I  don't  give  a  damn  what  a  man's  record  is 
— what  he's  done  or  what  he  hasn't  done.  Let 
me  get  a  good  look  into  his  eye  when  he  talks 
and  in  half  a  minute  I'll  know  whether  to  hire  him 
or  pass  him  on  to  you  fellows.  Here  he  comes 
now." 

Bill  took  keen  delight  in  showing  the  two  lumber- 
men about  the  camp. 

"What's  the  idea  of  the  ell  on  the  bunk-house  ? " 
asked  Applet  on. 

"Teamster's  bunk-house,"  replied  the  foreman. 
"You  see,  I  know  how  it  feels  to  be  waked  up  at 
four  in  the  morning  by  the  teamsters  piling  out  of 
their  bunks;  so  I  built  a  separate  bunk-house  for 
them.  The  men  work  too  hard  to  have  their  sleep 
broken  into  that  way.  And  another  thing — I  built 
a  couple  of  big  rooms  onto  the  office  where  the  men 
can  play  cards  and  smoke  in  the  evening.  I  ordered 
a  phonograph,  too.  I  expect  it  in  on  the  tote- 
wagon." 

Sheridan  grinned  skeptically  and  spat  out  part 
of  his  cigar.     Appleton  made  no  comment. 

"Come  over  to  the  office,  Bill,"  he  said.  "I 
want  you  to  meet  the  ladies — my  wife  and  niece 
and  Mrs.  Sheridan. " 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  not  very  presentable, "  replied 
Bill  dubiously  as  they  crossed  the  clearing  in  the 
lengthening  shadows;  but  he  went  with  them 
without  hesitation. 

They  were  met  at  the  door  by  a  plump-faced 
19 


290  The  Promise 

lady  of  ample  proportions  who  was  evidently 
fighting  a  losing  battle  with  a  tendency  toward 
embonpoint;  and  a  slight,  gray-haired  one  who  stood 
poised  upon  the  split  puncheon  that  served  as  a 
door-step. 

"Ladies,  this  is  Bill,  the  foreman  of  this  camp. 
Mrs.  Sheridan,  Bill,  and  my  wife." 

The  ladies  bowed  formally,  and  secretly  ap- 
proved of  the  grace  with  which  the  foreman 
removed  his  cap  and  returned  their  salute.  Never- 
theless, there  was  an  icy  note  in  Mrs.  Appleton's 
voice  as  she  said: 

1 '  My  niece  begs  to  be  excused.  She  is  very  tired 
after  her  rather  hard  trip."  If  Bill  noticed  the 
frigidity  in  the  tone  he  gave  no  sign. 

' '  I  imagine  it  has  been  a  very  trying  trip  for  you 
all.  However,  I  will  offer  you  the  best  accommo- 
dations the  camp  affords.  If  you  will  kindly 
choose  which  of  those  two  rooms  you  prefer  I  will 
have  your  belongings  moved  in  at  once. " 

"I  suppose  you  brought  cots, "  he  added,  turning 
to  Appleton. 

"Yes,  everything  necessary  for  a  tenderfoot 
outfit." 

"When  the  ladies  have  selected  their  room  I 
will  have  your  gear  moved  into  the  other,"  said 
Bill;  and,  with  a  bow  to  the  ladies,  moved  off  in 
the  direction  of  the  cook-shack. 

Alone  in  the  office,  Ethel  Manton  gazed  about 
upon  the  meager  furnishings;  a  desk,  the  little  air- 
tight stove  with  its  huge  wood-box;  three  wooden 


In  the  Office  291 

chairs,  a  trunk  secured  by  a  padlock,  and  a  bunk 
neatly  laid  with  heavy  blankets. 

Several  pairs  of  boots,  moccasins,  and  heavy 
mittens  were  ranged  along  the  floor  next  to  the 
wall,  while  from  pegs  above  them  hung  a  faded 
mackinaw,  a  slicker,  and  several  pairs  of  corduroy 
trousers. 

Tacked  to  the  wall  above  the  desk  was  a  large, 
highly  colored  calendar,  while  upon  the  opposite 
wall  hung  a  rifle  and  a  belt  of  yellow  cartridges. 
Her  woman's  eye  took  in  the  scrupulous  neatness 
of  the  room  and  the  orderly  disposition  of  the 
various  articles. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  in  a  man's 
room,  and  she  felt  a  keen  thrill  of  interest 
in  her  surroundings.  Upon  the  top  of  the  desk 
beside  the  little  bracket-lamp  was  a  short  row 
of  books. 

"It  is  too  bad, "  she  muttered,  "that  he  couldn't 
have  been  nice.  How  I  would  have  enjoyed  talk- 
ing with  him  and  telling  him  how  splendid  it  is 
that  he  is  making  good! 

' '  Maybe  somewhere  a  girl  is  wondering  where  he 
is — and  waiting  day  after  day  for  word  from  him — 
and  worrying  her  very  heart  out.  Oh,  I  hope 
she  will  never  know  about  this  Jeanne — ugh! 
An  Indian — and  Uncle  Appleton  said  he  is  a 
gentleman!" 

She  paused  before  the  desk  and  idly  read  the 
titles  of  the  books;  there  were  a  logger's  manual,  a 
few  text-books  on  surveying  and  timber  estimating, 


292  The  Promise 

several  of  the  latest  novels,  apparently  unread 
and  a  well-thumbed  copy  of  Browning. 

"Browning!  Of  all  things — in  a  log  camp! 
Now  I  know  there  is  a  girl — poor  thing!"  Open, 
face  downward  upon  the  surface  of  the  desk  where 
it  had  been  pushed  aside  to  make  room  for  a  rough 
sketch  of  the  camp  with  its  outreaching  skidways 
and  cross-hauls,  lay  a  small  volume. 

"And  Southey!"  she  exclaimed  under  her 
breath,  and  picked  up  the  book.  It  was  ' '  Madoc, " 
and  three  lines,  heavily  underscored,  stood  boldly 
out  upon  the  page : 

"  Three  things  a  wise  man  will  not  trust, 
The  wind,  the  sunshine  of  an  April  day, 
And  woman's  plighted  faith." 

Over  and  over  she  read  the  lines,  and,  returning 
the  book  to  its  place,  pondered,  as  she  allowed  her 
glance  to  rove  again  over  the  little  room  whose 
every  detail  bespoke  intense  masculinity. 

"I  might  at  least  be  nice  to  him,"  she  mur- 
mured. "Maybe  the  girl  was  horrid.  And  he  is 
'way  up  here,  trying  to  forget !  "  Unconsciously 
she  repeated  the  words  of  her  Uncle  Appleton: 
"He  has  made  good. " 

And  then  there  flashed  through  her  mind  the 
words  of  the  guide:  "She  is  beautiful,  and  she 
loves  him.  She  accompanied  him  for  three  days 
and  three  nights  on  the  trail  to  the  land  of  the 
white  man,  and  he  promised  that  he  would  come 
again  into  the  woods  and  protect  her  from  harm. " 


In  the  Office  293 

"This  Indian  girl,"  she  whispered — "she  loves 
him,  and  he  persuaded  her  to  accompany  him, 
and  when  they  drew  near  to  civilization  he  sent 
her  back — with  a  promise!" 

Her  lips  thinned  and  the  hot  blood  mounted  to 
her  cheeks.  No  matter  what  conditions  sent  this 
man  into  the  woods,  there  could  be  no  justification 
for  that.  She  shuddered  as  she  drew  her  skirts 
away  where  they  brushed  lightly  against  the 
blankets  of  his  bunk,  and  turned  toward  the  door. 

And  just  at  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
in  the  gathering  darkness  a  man  stood  framed  in 
the  doorway.  She  drew  back,  startled,  and  with 
the  swiftness  of  light  her  glance  swept  him  from  the 
top  of  his  cap  to  the  soles  of  his  heavy  boots. 

He  was  a  large  man  whose  features  were  con- 
cealed by  a  thick  beard.  His  fringed  and  beauti- 
fully embroidered  shirt  of  buckskin  was  open  at 
the  throat,  as  if  to  allow  free  play  to  the  mighty 
muscles  of  his  well-formed  neck. 

Only  a  few  seconds  he  stood  thus,  and  with  a 
swift  movement  removed  the  cap  from  his  head. 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  he  said,  and  his  eyes 
sought  hers;  "I  did  not  know  any  one  was  here. " 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  the  girl  started. 
One  quick  step,  and  she  stood  before  him,  staring 
into  his  eyes.  She  felt  her  flesh  grow  cold,  and  her 
heart  seemed  gripped  between  the  jaws  of  a  mighty 
vise. 

"  You!"  she  gasped,  and  swayed  unsteadily  as 
her  hand  sought  her  throat.     Her  voice  came  dry 


294  The  Promise 

and  hard  and  choking  as  she  repeated  the  word: 
"You!"  And  in  that  moment  the  man  saw  her 
face  in  the  deepening  gloom  of  the  room. 

"Ethel!"  he  cried,  springing  toward  her  with 
outstretched  arms.  Then,  when  she  was  almost 
within  their  grasp,  the  arms  dropped,  for  the  girl 
shrank  from  his  touch  and  her  eyes  blazed. 

Thus  for  a  moment  they  stood  facing  each  other, 
the  girl — white,  tense — with  blazing  eyes,  and  the 
big  man,  who  fought  for  control  of  himself.  Finally 
he  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  steady  and  very  low. 

"Forgive  me,  Ethel,"  he  said.  "For  the 
moment  I  forgot  that  I  have  not  the  right — that 
there  is  another " 

With  a  low,  moaning  cry  the  girl  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  Even  since  she  faced  him 
there  the  thought  had  flashed  through  her  brain 
that  there  might  be  some  mistake — that  the  man 
might  even  yet  be  as  he  appeared  to  be — big  and 
brave  and  clean. 

But  now — from  his  own  lips  she  had  heard  it — ■ 
"there  is  another" — and  that  other — an  Indian! 

A  convulsive  shudder  shook  her  whole  body, 
the  room  seemed  to  reel;  she  pressed  her  hands 
more  tightly  to  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  sight 
of  him,  and  the  next  instant  all  was  dark,  and 
she  pitched  heavily  forward  into  the  arms  of 
the  man. 

For  one  brief  moment  he  held  her,  straining  her 
limp  body  to  his.  The  hands  relaxed  and  fell 
away  from  her  pallid  face,  and  the  bearded  lips 


In  the  Office  295 

bent  close  above  the  soft  lips  of  the  unconscious 
girl — but  only  for  a  moment. 

Without  touching  the  lips,  the  man  straightened 
up  and,  crossing  to  the  bunk,  laid  the  still  form 
upon  the  blankets.  With  never  a  backward 
glance,  he  passed  out  through  the  door. 

It  was  dark  in  the  clearing,  and  a  couple  of 
steps  brought  him  face  to  face  with  Appleton,  who 
was  coming  to  tell  his  niece  that  the  ladies'  quar- 
ters were  ready. 

The  foreman  paused  and  looked  squarely  into 
the  face  of  his  employer.  He  slowly  raised  an  arm 
and  pointed  to  the  open  door  of  the  office. 

"Miss  Manton,  "  he  said,  "has  fainted."  And 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  passed  on  into  the 
night. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

CHARLIE  FINDS    A   FRIEND 

The  following  morning  the  camp  looked  out 
upon  a  white  world.  The  threatened  snow  which 
began  during  the  night  was  still  falling,  and  from 
the  windows  the  dark  walls  of  the  clearing  could 
be  seen  but  dimly  through  the  riot  of  dancing 
flakes. 

It  was  a  constrained  and  rather  glum  party 
that  sat  down  to  breakfast  shortly  after  daylight 
in  the  room  adjoining  the  office,  where  two  deal 
tables  had  been  drawn  together  and  spread  with  a 
new,  white  oilcloth. 

Ethel  Manton  had  entirely  recovered  from  her 
syncope  of  the  previous  evening,  and  had  offered 
no  elucidation  other  than  that  of  fatigue.  Never- 
theless, not  a  person  in  the  room  but  felt  that  there 
had  been  another  and  more  immediate  cause  for 
the  girl's  collapse. 

Charlie  had  begged  to  be  allowed  to  "eat  with 

the    men,"    and    the    foreman    had    courteously 

declined  Appleton's  invitation  to  join  the  party 

during  their  stay  in  camp. 

The  dismal  and  sporadic  attempts  at  conver- 

296 


Charles  Finds  a  Friend  297 

sation  had  slumped  into  an  awkward  silence,  in 
the  midst  of  which  the  door  burst  open  and  young 
Charlie  catapulted  into  the  room. 

"Oh,  Eth!  Guess  who  he  is !"  he  cried.  "Guess 
who's  the  boss — the  man  the  Indians  call  The- 
Man-Who-Cannot-Die' !  It's  Bill  Carmody!  And 
I  knew  him  the  minute  I  saw  him,  if  he  has  got 
whiskers  all  over  his  face  and  a  buckskin  shirt. 

"And  he  knew  me!  And  he  shook  hands  with 
me  right  before  all  the  men — and  you  ought  to 
seen  'em  look !  And  he's  going  to  teach  me  how  to 
walk  on  snowshoes!  Oh,  ain't  you  glad!  'Cause 
now  you  and  Bill  can " 

"Charlie'"  The  girl's  face  flamed,  and  the 
word  seemed  wrung  from  her  very  heart.  The 
boy  paused  for  a  moment  in  the  midst  of  his  breath- 
less harangue  and  eyed  his  sister  with  disgust. 

"You  know  you  do  love  him, "  he  continued,  his 
eyes  flashing  defiantly,  "even  if  you  did  have  a 
scrap — and  he  loves  you,  too!  And  that  dang  St. 
Ledger's  just  nothing  but  a — a — a  squirt — that's 
what  he  is — and  if  I  was  Bill  Carmody  I'd  punch 
his  head  for  him  if  he  even  spoke  to  you  again — if 
you  was  my  girl ! 

"And  I'm  going  to  tell  him  we  know  he  never 
swiped  those  bonds,  and  you  stuck  up  for  him 
when  old  man  Carmody  told  you  he  did. " 

The  last  words  of  the  boy's  remarks  were 
addressed  to  an  empty  chair,  for  the  girl,  white 
and  trembling,  had  fled  into  the  other  room  and 
banged  the  door  after  her. 


298  The  Promise 

Mrs.  Appleton,  with  an  unintelligibly  muttered 
excuse,  hurriedly  followed,  leaving  her  husband 
gazing  from  her  retreating  back  to  the  excited  face 
of  the  youngster,  and  muttering:  "Bless  my  soul! 
Bless  my  soul!"  between  the  gulps  of  his  coffee, 
which  for  once  in  his  life  he  swallowed  with  never 
a  growl  at  the  canned  milk.  A  moment  later  he 
abruptly  left  the  table  and,  motioning  the  boy  to 
follow,  led  the  way  to  the  office. 

A  half-hour  passed,  and  Charlie  left  the  building 
under  the  strictest  kind  of  orders  not  to  mention 
to  Bill  Carmody  either  Ethel  or  the  bonds. 

Puzzling  his  small  head  over  the  inexplicable 
doings  of  grown-up  people,  he  wandered  toward 
the  cook-shack  to  hunt  up  Daddy  Dunnigan, 
with  whom  he  had  already  struck  up  a  great 
friendship. 

"She  loves  him  and  he  loves  her, "  he  muttered 
to  himself  as  he  scuffed  his  brand-new  moccasins 
through  the  soft  now,  "and  each  one  tries  to  let 
on  they  don't.  And  Uncle  Appleton  won't  let  me 
tell  Bill  she  does  so  he'd  go  and  tell  her  he  does; 
and  then  old  man  Carmody  and  his  bonds  could  go 
to  the  devil  I 

"You  bet,  I  hope  I  never  get  in  love  and  act 
like  a  couple  of  fools.  Now,  I  bet  she'll  marry 
that  sniffit,  and  he'll  marry  Blood  River  Jack's 
sister."  The  boy  paused  and  glanced  specu- 
latively at  the  falling  snow.  "I  wonder  if  he 
wants  to?     Anyhow,  I  can  ask  him  that  much." 

Later,  in  the  office,   Mrs.  Appleton  broke  in 


Charles  Finds  a  Friend  299 

upon  her  husband's  third  black  cigar.  There  was 
no  doorway  connecting  the  office  with  the  other 
two  rooms,  and  the  lumberman  watched  the  snow- 
flakes  melt  on  his  wife's  hair  as  she  seated  herself 
directly  in  front  of  him. 

"Well,  Hubert  Appleton,  this  is  a  nice  mess  you 
have  got  us  into,  I  must  say!" 

"Me!"  grinned  the  man.  ' '  Why,  little  girl,  this 
is  your  party." 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  me  who  it  was  that 
suggested  leaving  out  young  Mr.  Holbrooke, 
and  coming  here  so  that  Ethel  could  meet  this 
man  ?" 

' '  She— er— met  him— didn't  she  ?  " 

"You  needn't  try  to  be  facetious!  What  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Who — me?  Oh,  just  stick  around  and  watch 
the  fun. " 

"Fun!  Fun!  Hubert  Appleton,  aren't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself?  And  that  poor  girl  in  there 
crying  her  eyes  out!     Fun,  indeed — it's  tragedy  /" 

"There,  there,  little  woman;  don't  let's  get 
excited.  It's  up  to  us  to  kind  of  figure  things  out 
a  bit ;  but  the  young  folks  themselves  will  be  the 
real  actors. 

"Now,  just  how  much — or,  how  little  did  she 
tell  you?" 

"She  told  me  everything.  Poor  dear,  it  did  her 
good.  She  has  had  nobody  to  tell — nobody  to 
cry  with  her  and  sympathize  with  her. " 

When  his  wife  concluded,  H.  D.  Appleton  had 


300  The  Promise 

received  a  very  accurate  chronicle  of  the  doings  of 
Bill  Carmody  from  the  time  of  his  boyhood  until 
chance  threw  them  together  in  the  smoking-com- 
partment  of  the  west-bound  sleeper. 

The  lumberman  listened  attentively,  without 
interrupting,  until  his  wife  finished. 

"Does  she  think  Bill  took  those  bonds?"  he 
asked. 

"No.  She  does  not.  Even  with  everything 
else  against  him,  she  cannot  bring  herself  to  believe 
that  he  is  a  thief. 

"Do  you  think  he  took  them?" 

"Why — I — I  don't  know,"  she  hesitated. 

"Do  you  think  he  took  them? " 

The  little  woman  looked  into  her  husband's 
eyes  as  she  purposely  delayed  her  reply. 

"No,"  she  said  at  length.  "I  do  not.  But 
his  own  father  accused  him." 

Appleton  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and  brought 
his  fist  down  upon  the  desk-top. 

"I  don't  give  a  damn  who  accused  him!"  he 
cried.  "That  boy  never  stole  a  bond,  or  any 
other  thing,  and  I'll  stake  my  last  cent  on  it!" 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  bonds.  Ethel  does  not  believe 
he  stole  them.  But — the  other — you  heard  what 
the  guide  said — and  Ethel  heard  it.  She  never 
can  get  over  that !  He  may  be  honest — but  he  is 
a  perfect  villain!" 

"Hold  on,  now.  Let's  go  easy.  Maybe  it 
isn't  so  bad  as  it  sounds. " 

;Not  so  bad!     Hubert  Appleton,  do  you  mean 


<«  - 


Charles  Finds  a  Friend  3QI 

to  tell  me  that  you  would,  for  a  minute,  think  of 
allowing  your  niece  to  marry  such  a  man?" 

Appleton  smiled  into  the  outraged  eyes  of  his  wife. 
"  Yup.     I  think  I  would, "  he  replied,  and  then 
hastened  to  add: 

"Wait  here  and  I  will  fetch  Blood  River  Jack. 
He  may  have  told  more  than  he  knows,  or  he  may 
not  have  told  all  he  knows.  When  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  from  what  he  did  tell,  we  only  jumped 
at  conclusions." 

He  hurried  from  the  office,  returning  a  few 
minutes  later  with  the  half-breed,  who  seated 
himself  and  lighted  the  proffered  cigar  with  evident 
enjoyment. 

"Now,  Jack,"  Appleton  began,  speaking  with 
his  accustomed  brevity,  "tell  us  about  Monsieur 
Bill  and  this  sister  of  yours.  Did  you  say  he  was 
going  to  marry  her?" 

The  guide  looked  from  one  to  the  other  as  if 
silently  taking  their  measure.  Finally  he  seemed 
satisfied. 

"No,"  he  said  gravely,  "he  will  not  marry 
Jeanne. " 

The  lumberman  cleared  his  throat  and  waited 
while  the  man  looked  out  upon  the  whirling  snow, 
for  well  he  knew  that  the  half-breed  must  be 
allowed  to  take  his  own  time — he  could  not  be 
"pumped."  And  Mrs.  Appleton,  taking  her  cue 
from  her  husband,  curbed  her  impatience,  and 
waited  with  apparent  unconcern. 

"It  is, "  the  guide  began,  as  if  carefully  weighing 


302  The  Promise 

his  words,  "that  you  are  the  good  friends  of  M'sV 
Bill.  Also  I  have  seen  that  you  know  the  men  of 
the  logs. 

"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  my  mother,  who  is  old  and 
very  wise,  knows  the  men  of  the  logs,  and,  know- 
ing them,  hated  M's'u'  Bill,  and  would  have 
returned  him  to  the  river,  but  Jeanne  prevented. 
For  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  knowing  of  the  fatherless 
breeds  of  the  rivers,  hated  all  white  men,  and  a 
great  fear  was  in  her  heart  for  the  girl,  who  is  her 
daughter,  and  the  daughter  of  Lacombie  whom, 
she  says,  was  the  one  good  white  man;  but  La- 
combie is  dead. 

"So  always  in  the  days  of  the  summer,  when 
these  two  would  leave  the  lodge  to  visit  the 
deserted  camp  of  Moncrossen,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta 
followed  them.  Stealthily  and  unknown  she  crept 
upon  their  trail,  and  always  her  sharp  eyes  were 
upon  them,  and  in  the  fold  of  her  blanket  was 
concealed  a  long,  keen  blade,  and  behind  the  unfail- 
ing gaze  of  the  black  eyes  was  the  mind  to  kill. 

"Thus  passed  the  days  of  the  summer,  and  the 
hand  of  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  was  stayed,  but  her 
vigilance  remained  unrelenting.  For  deep  in  her 
heart  is  seared  the  memory  of  two  winters  ago, 
when  Moncrossen  gazed  upon  the  beauty  of 
Jeanne,  and  came  to  the  tepee  in  the  night, 
knowing  I  was  away,  and  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  fought 
him  in  the  darkness  until  he  fled,  cursing  and 
swearing  vengeance. 

1 '  Never  since  that  night  has  the  girl  been  safe,  for 


Charles  Finds  a  Friend  303 

Moncrossen,  with  the  cunning  of  the  wolf,  is 
waiting  his  time — and  some  day  he  will  strike! 

"But  I  shared  not  the  fear  of  my  mother  that 
harm  would  come  to  Jeanne  at  the  hand  of  the 
great  chechako,  for  I  have  looked  into  his  eyes,  and 
I  know  that  his  heart  is  good. 

' '  Upon  the  day  before  his  departure  for  the  land 
of  the  white  man  he  gave  to  the  girl  the  skin  of 
Diablesse,  and  then  she  told  him  she  loved  him, 
and  begged  him  to  remain  with  her  in  the  country 
of  the  Indians. 

"But  he  would  not,  for  he  does  not  love  Jeanne, 
but  another — a  woman  of  his  own  people,  who 
lives  in  the  great  city  of  the  white  man.  And 
even  though  this  woman  sent  him  from  her,  he 
loves  her,  and  will  marry  no  other. 

"Listening,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  heard  him  tell  this 
to  Jeanne;  but  of  this  woman  the  girl  knew,  for 
he  talked  incessantly  of  her,  and  cried  out  that 
she  would  marry  another — in  the  voice  of  the 
fever-spirit,  in  the  time  of  his  great  sickness. 

' '  The  following  day  he  departed  in  a  canoe,  and 
as  he  pushed  from  the  shore,  Jeanne  handed  him 
his  mackinaw,  and  words  passed  between  them 
that  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  could  not  hear  from  her 
position  behind  a  log. 

"But,  as  the  canoe  passed  from  sight  around 
a  bend  in  the  river,  the  girl  plunged  into  the  woods, 
and  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  returned  to  the  tepee  and 
made  up  a  light  pack  and  slipped  silently  upon  her 
trail.     The  girl  cut  through  the  forest  and  came 


304  The  Promise 

again  to  the  river,  and  for  a  night  and   a  day 
awaited  the  coming  of  the  canoe. 

"The  third  evening  it  came  and  the  man  camped, 
and  Jeanne  crept  close  and  watched  him  across 
the  blaze  of  his  little  fire  as  he  smoked  and  stared 
into  the  embers.  Y/hile  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  also 
crept  stealthily  to  the  fire,  making  no  sound,  and 
she  came  to  within  an  arm's  reach  of  the  man's 
back,  and  in  her  hand  was  clutched  tightly  the 
sheath-knife  with  its  long,  keen  blade. 

"At  the  midnight  the  man  unrolled  his  blankets 
and  laid  down  to  sleep,  and  then  it  was  that 
Jeanne  stepped  into  the  firelight.  And  in  the 
deep  shadow,  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  gripped  more  tightly 
the  knife  and  made  ready  to  strike.  " 

The  half-breed  paused  while  the  others  waited 
breathlessly  for  him  to  resume. 

"Think  not  that  Jeanne  is  bad.  She  is  good, 
and  her  heart  is  the  pure  heart  of  a  maiden.  But, 
such  is  the  love  of  woman — to  face  gladly  the 
sneers  of  the  world,  and  the  wrath  of  her  people — ■ 
for  she  did  not  ask  him  to  marry  her — only  to 
take  her. 

"But  the  man  would  not,  and  commanded  her 
to  return  to  the  lodge.  She  told  him  that  she 
could  not  return — that  three  days  and  three  nights 
had  passed  since  they  had  departed  together,  and 
that,  if  he  would  not  take  her,  she  would  go  alone 
to  the  land  of  the  white  man. 

' '  Then  M's'u'  Bill  arose  and  folded  his  blankets 
and  made  up  his  pack,  and  when  he  spoke  to  her 


Charles  Finds  a  Friend  305 

again  it  was  in  the  voice  of  the  terrible  softness— 
the  softness  that  causes  men  first  to  wonder,  and 
then  to  obey,  though  they  know  not  why.  He 
said  that  he  himself  would  take  her  back,  and 
that  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  who  is  old  and  very  wise, 
would  know  that  his  words  were  true. 

"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta,  lurking  there  in  the  deep 
shadow,  in  that  moment  knew  that  the  man's 
heart  was  good.  And  she  stepped  into  the  fire- 
light, and  looked  long  into  his  eyes — and  she 
broke  the  knife — and  between  them  there  passed 
the  promise." 

Jacques  puffed  slowly  upon  his  cigar,  arose 
to  his  feet,  and  stood  looking  down  upon  the  two 
who  had  listened  to  his  words. 

"It  is  well, "  he  said,  and  his  dark  eyes  flashed, 
"for  the  heart  of  Moncrossen  is  bad,  and  the 
beauty  of  Jeanne  has  inflamed  the  evil  passions 
of  him,  and  he  will  stop  at  nothing  in  the  fulfillment 
of  his  desire. 

"But,  into  the  North  has  come  a  greater  than 
Moncrossen.  And  terrible  will  be  the  vengeance 
of  this  man  if  harm  falls  upon  Jeanne.  For  he  is 
her  friend,  his  word  has  passed,  his  heart  is  strong 
and  good,  and  he  knows  not  fear. 

"Upon  Moncrossen  will  fall  the  day  of  the  Great 
Reckoning.  And,  in  that  day,  justice  will  be  done, 
for  he  will  stand  face  to  face  with  M's'u'  Bill— The- 
Man-Who-Cannot-Die — the  man  whom  Wa-ha-ta- 
na-ta  has  named  'The  One  Good  White  Man'!" 
20 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 


bill's  way 


"And,  to  think,"  whispered  Mrs.  Appleton  as 
she  wiped  a  tear  from  her  eye,  after  the  half- 
breed's  departure,  "that  in  New  York  this  same 
man  had  earned  the  name  of  'Broadway  Bill,  the 
sport'!" 

"Yes,"  answered  her  husband;  "but  Broadway 
Bill  has  passed,  and  in  his  place,  out  here  in  the 
big  country,  is  Broadgauge  Bill,  the  man!  I  knew 
I  was  right,  Margaret,  by  gad,  I  knew  it!  Look 
in  his  eye!" 

Followed,  then,  in  the  little  office,  an  hour  of 
intimate  conversation,  at  the  conclusion  of  which 
the  two  arose. 

"Not  a  word  to  Ethel,  remember,"  admonished 
the  woman,  and  laughed  knowingly  as  her  hus- 
band stooped  and  kissed  her. 

During  the  days  that  followed,  Appleton  and 
Sheridan,  accompanied  by  Blood  River  Jack, 
hunted  from  early  morning  until  late  evening, 
when  they  would  return,  trail- weary  and  happy, 
to  spend  hours  over  the  cleaning  and  oiling  of  guns 
and  the  overhauling  of  gear. 

306 


Bill's  Way  3°7 

Young  Charlie  was  allowed  to  go  on  some  of  the 
shorter  expeditions,  but  for  the  most  part  he  was 
to  be  found  dogging  the  heels  of  Bill  Carmody; 
or  perched  upon  a  flour-barrel  in  the  cook-shack, 
listening  to  the  tales  of  Daddy  Dunnigan. 

The  ladies  busied  themselves  with  the  care  of 
the  two  rooms,  with  useless  needlework,  and  with 
dummy  auction,  varying  the  monotony  with  daily 
excursions  into  the  near-by  forest  in  quest  of 
spruce-gum    and    pine-cones. 

Since  the  morning  Charlie  had  broken  in  so 
incontinently  upon  their  breakfast  no  reference 
had  been  made  to  Bill  Carmody  by  any  member 
of  the  party;  while  the  foreman  pursued  the  even 
tenor  of  his  way,  apparently  as  unconcerned  by 
their  existence  as  they  were  by  his. 

One  afternoon  as  the  ladies  were  starting  upon 
one  of  their  tramps  they  came  face  to  face  with 
the  foreman,  who  tipped  his  cap,  bowed  coldly,  and 
passed  into  the  office,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

Mrs.  Appleton  halted  suddenly,  glanced  toward 
the  building,  and  retraced  her  steps.  It  was  but  a 
short  distance,  and  Ethel  walked  back,  waiting  at 
the  door  while  her  aunt  entered  their  own  apart- 
ment. 

The  girl  watched  abstractedly,  thinking  the 
older  woman  had  returned  for  something  she  had 
forgotten. 

Suddenly  she  became  all  attention,  and  a  hot 
flush  of  anger  mounted  to  her  face  as  she  saw  her 
aunt  walk  to  the  table,  pick  up  her  purse  and 


308  The  Promise 

several  rings  which  she  had  left,  and  with  a  glance 
at  the  thick,  log  wall  which  separated  the  room 
from  the  office,  deliberately  walk  to  her  trunk  and 
place  the  articles  under  lock  and  key. 

Apparently  Mrs.  Appleton  had  not  noticed  the 
girl's  presence,  but  more  than  once  during  the 
afternoon  the  corners  of  her  mouth  twitched 
when,  in  response  to  some  question  or  remark  of 
hers,  the  shortness  of  the  girl's  replies  bordered 
upon  absolute  rudeness. 

And  late  that  night  she  smiled  broadly  in  the 
darkness  when  the  low  sound  of  stifled  sobs  came 
from  the  direction  of  the  girl's  cot. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  the  following 
morning,  Ethel  put  on  her  wraps  and  started  out 
alone.  Arriving,  after  a  long,  aimless  ramble, 
at  the  outermost  end  of  a  skidway,  she  sat  upon  a 
log  to  rest  and  watch  a  huge  swamper  who,  unaware 
of  her  presence,  was  engaged  in  slashing  the  under- 
brush from  in  front  of  a  group  of  large  logs. 

Finally,  tiring  of  the  sight,  she  arose  and  started 
for  the  clearing,  and  then  suddenly  drew  back  and 
stepped  behind  the  bole  of  a  great  pine,  for,  strid- 
ing rapidly  toward  her  on  the  skidway  was  Bill 
Carmody,  and  she  pressed  still  closer  to  the 
tree-trunk  that  he  might  pass  without  observing 
her. 

He  was  very  close  now,  and  the  girl  noticed  the 
peculiar  expression  of  his  face — an  expression  she 
had  seen  there  once  before — his  lips  were  smiling, 
and  his  gray  eyes  were  narrowed  almost  to  slits. 


Bill's  Way  309 

The  man  halted  scarcely  fifty  feet  from  her, 
at  the  place  where  the  swamper,  with  wide  blows 
of  his  axe,  was  laying  the  small  saplings  and  brush- 
wood low.  She  started  at  the  cold  softness  of  the 
tones  of  his  voice. 

"Leduc,  "  he  said,"  just  a  minute — it  will  hardly 
take  longer. " 

The  man  turned  quickly  at  the  sound  of  the 
voice  at  his  side,  and  for  the  space  of  seconds  the 
two  big  men  faced  each  other  on  the  packed  snow 
of  the  skid  way. 

Then,  with  a  motion  of  incredible  swiftness, 
and  without  apparent  effort,  the  foreman's  right 
arm  shot  out  and  his  fist  landed  squarely  upon  the 
nose  of  the  huge  swamper. 

The  girl  heard  the  wicked  spat,  and  the  peculiar, 
frightened  grunt  as  the  man  reeled  backward,  and 
saw  the  quick  gush  of  red  blood  that  splashed  down 
his  front  and  squirted  out  over  the  snow. 

Before  the  man  had  time  to  recover,  the  fore- 
man advanced  a  step  and  struck  again.  This 
time  it  was  his  left  hand  that  clove  the  air  in  a  long, 
clean  swing,  and  the  man  went  down  into  the  snow 
without  a  sound  as  the  fist  thudded  against  his 
neck  just  below  the  ear. 

Without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  the  man  in  the 
snow,  Bill  Carmody  turned  on  his  heel  and  started 
back  down  the  skidway. 

Few  seconds  had  elapsed,  and  a  strange,  bar- 
baric thrill  ran  through  the  girl's  body  as  she  looked 
out  upon  the  scene,  quickly  followed  by  a  wave 


310  The  Promise 

of  sickening  pity  for  the  poor  wretch  who  lay 
sprawled  in  the  snow. 

And,  then,  a  great  anger  surged  into  her  heart 
against  the  man  who  had  felled  him.  She  dashed 
from  her  hiding-place,  and  in  a  moment  stood 
facing  him,  her  blue  eyes  flashing. 

"You  brute!"  she  cried,  "what  right  had  you? 
Why  did  you  strike  him?"  The  man  regarded 
her  gravely,  lifting  his  cap  politely  as  if  answering 
a  most  commonplace  question. 

"Because, "he replied,  "I  wanted  to,"  and,  with 
a  curt  bow,  stepped  into  the  timber  and  dis- 
appeared, leaving  her  alone  in  the  skid  way  with  the 
bloody,  unconscious  form  in  the  snow. 

Never  in  her  life  had  Ethel  Manton  been  so 
furiously  angry — not  because  a  man  had  been 
felled  by  a  blow — she  had  forgotten  that— but 
because,  in  demanding  an  explanation,  in  attempt- 
ing to  call  Bill  Carmody  to  account,  she  had  laid 
herself  open  to  his  stinging  rebuff. 

Without  pretense  of  defense  or  justification,  the 
man  had  quietly  told  her  that  he  knocked  the 
swamper  down  "because  he  wanted  to";  and 
without  waiting  for  comment — as  if  the  fact  that 
"he  wanted  to"  was  sufficient  in  itself — had  gone 
about  his  business  without  giving  the  matter  a 
second  thought. 

The  flash  of  anger,  which  in  the  first  place  had 
prompted  her  to  speak  to  the  man,  was  but  ai* 
impulsive  protest  against  what  she  considered  an 
act  of  brutality ;  but  that  quickry  passed. 


Bill's  Way  311 

The  anger  that  surged  through  her  heart  as  she 
gazed,  white-faced,  at  the  spot  where  the  big  man 
disappeared,  was  the  bitter  anger  of  outraged  dig- 
nity and  injured  pride. 

He  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  find  out  what 
she  thought,  for  the  very  obvious  reason  that  he 
had  not  cared  what  she  thought — and  so  he  left 
her.  And  when  he  had  gone  the  girl  plodded 
wrathfully  back  to  camp  and  spoke  to  no  one  of 
what  she  had  seen.  But,  deep  down  in  her  heart, 
she  knew  there  had  been  a  reason  for  Bill's  act — 
and  she  knew  that  the  reason  was  good. 

That  same  evening  Appleton  pushed  his  chair 
back  from  the  table  and  glanced  toward  Ethel, 
who  had  got  out  a  bit  of  crochet-work.  Then, 
with  a  sidewise  glance  at  his  wife,  he  remarked 
thoughtfully : 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  get  rid  of  Bill.  A 
Canuck  swamper  named  Leduc  complained  to  me 
that  the  boss  slipped  up  on  him  and  knocked  him 
insensible  with  a  club.  I  can't  stand  for  that — • 
not  even  from  Bill." 

At  the  mention  of  the  foreman's  name  the  girl 
looked  up  quickly. 

"He  didn't  hit  him  with  a  club!  He  hit  him 
with  his  fist!  And  there  was  a  reason — "  The 
girl  stopped  abruptly,  and  a  wave  of  crimson 
suffused  her  face.  She  could  have  bitten  her 
tongue  off  for  speaking — for  defending  this  man. 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  her  uncle  in  sur- 
prise. 


312  The  Promise 

"I  saw  him  do  it,"  she  replied;  realizing  that, 
having  gone  so  far,  she  must  answer. 

"Why  did  he  strike  him?"  persisted  Appleton. 

"You  might  ask  him  that,"  she  said  and,  with 
a  defiant  toss  of  her  head,  quitted  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her. 

The  Sheridans  had  been  taken  into  confidence, 
and  when  the  four  found  themselves  alone  they 
smiled  knowingly. 

As  the  days  slipped  into  the  second  week  of  their 
stay,  the  carcasses  of  many  deer  hung  from  poles 
in  the  clearing,  and  the  outside  walls  of  the  log 
building  were  adorned  with  the  skins  of  numerous 
wolves  and  bobcats. 

Hardly  a  day  passed  but  some  one,  by  word  or 
look,  or  covert  sneer,  expressed  disapproval  of  the 
boss;  and  Ethel,  entirely  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
these  expressions  of  disapproval  were  made  only  in 
her  presence,  and  for  her  special  benefit,  was  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  of  great  pity  for  the  lonely  man. 

The  indescribable  restlessness  of  a  great  longing 
took  possession  of  her ;  she  found  herself,  time  and 
again,  watching  from  the  window,  and  from  places 
of  concealment  behind  the  trunks  of  trees,  while 
the  big  foreman  went  stolidly  about  his  work. 

The  fact  that  she  should  hate  Bill  Carmody  was 
logical  and  proper;  but  she  bitterly  resented  the 
distrust  and  criticism  of  the  others.  She  wished 
now  with  all  her  heart  that  she  had  not  confided  in 
her  aunt,  and  a  dozen  times  she  caught  herself 
on  the  point  of  rushing  to  his  defense. 


Bill's  Way  313 

Not  since  that  morning  on  the  skidway  had  the 
two  met.  Bill  deviated  not  one  whit  from  the 
regular  routine  of  his  duties,  and  the  girl  purposely 
avoided  him. 

She  hated  him.  Over  and  over  again  she  told 
herself  that  she  hated  and  despised  him,  and  yet, 
on  two  or  three  occasions  when  she  knew  he  had 
gone  to  the  farthest  reaches  of  the  cutting,  she  had 
slipped  unobserved  into  the  office  and  read  from 
his  books — not  the  uncut  novels — but  the  well- 
thumbed  copies  of  Browning  and  Southey;  and  as 
she  read  she  pondered. 

She  came  upon  many  marked  passages;  and  in 
her  heart  the  unrest  continued,  and  she  allowed 
her  hands  to  stray  over  the  coarse  cloth  of  his 
mackinaw,  and  once  she  threw  herself  upon  his 
bunk  and  buried  her  face  in  his  blankets,  and 
sobbed  the  dry,  racking  sobs  of  her  deep  soul-hurt. 

Then  she  had  leaped  to  her  feet  and  smoothed 
out  the  wrinkles  in  the  blankets,  and  stooped 
and  straightened  the  row  of  boots  and  moccasins 
along  the  base-log — and  quickly  disarranged  them 
again  for  fear  he  might  remember  how  he  left  them 
■ — and  rushed  from  the  office. 

Of  these  secret  visits  the  members  of  the  party 
knew  nothing,  but  Daddy  Dunnigan,  from  the 
window  of  the  cook-shack,  took  note  of  the  girl's 
comings  and  goings,  and  nodded  sagely  and 
chuckled  to  lumself.  For  Daddy  Dunnigan,  wise 
in  the  -.ays  of  women,  had  gathered  much  from 
the  calk  of  the  impetuous  youngster. 


CHAPTER  XL 

CHARLIE  GOES  HUNTING 

Blood  River  Jack  halted  suddenly  in  his 
journey  from  the  bunk-house  to  the  grub-shack 
and  sniffed  the  air. 

He  dropped  the  butt  of  his  rifle  to  the  hard- 
packed  snow  of  the  clearing  and  glanced  upward, 
where  a  thin  sprinkling  of  stars  winked  feebly  in 
the  first  blush  of  morning. 

The  dark  sky  was  cloudless,  and  the  trees  stood 
motionless  in  the  gloom,  which  slowly  dissipated 
where  the  first  faint  light  of  approaching  day 
grayed  the  east.  The  air  was  dry  and  cold,  but 
with  no  sting  of  crispness.  The  chill  of  it  was  the 
uncomfortable,  penetrating  chill  that  renders 
clothing  inadequate,  yet  brings  no  tingle  to  the 
exposed  portions  of  the  body. 

Again  the  man  sniffed  the  dead  air  and,  swing- 
ing the  rifle  into  the  crook  of  his  elbow,  continued 
toward  the  grub-shack. 

Appleton  and  Sheridan  accepted  without  re- 
monstrance the  guide's  prediction  of  a  storm  and 
retired  to  the  "house,"  as  the  room.,  in  which  the 
party  was  quartered  had  come  to  be  kn^wn— not 
entirely  unthankful  for  a  day  of  rest. 


Charlie  Goes  Hunting  315 

The  crew  went  into  the  timber,  as  usual;  the 
guide  retired  to  his  bunk  for  a  good  snooze;  and 
young  Charlie  Manton,  tiring  of  listening  to 
Daddy  Dunnigan's  yarns,  prowled  about  the 
camp  in  search  of  amusement. 

Entering  the  bunk-house,  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  the  loud  snoring  of  Blood  River  Jack, 
and  his  eye  fell  upon  the  half-breed's  rifle  and  car- 
tridge-belt, which  reposed  upon  the  floor  just 
beneath  the  edge  of  his  bunk. 

The  boy  crept  close,  his  soft  moccasins  making 
no  sound,  until  he  was  within  reach  of  the  gun, 
when  he  dropped  to  the  floor  and  lifted  it  in 
his  hands.  For  many  minutes  he  sat  upon  the 
floor  examining  the  rifle,  turning  it  over  and 
over. 

At  length  he  reached  for  the  cartridge-belt, 
and  buckling  it  about  his  waist,  left  the  room  as 
noiselessly  as  he  had  entered  and,  keeping  the 
bunk-house  in  line  with  the  window  of  the  cook- 
shack,  slipped  unobserved  into  the  timber. 

Upon  his  hunting  expeditions  with  the  others, 
Charlie  had  not  been  allowed  to  carry  a  high- 
power  rifle.  It  was  a  sore  blow  to  his  pride  that  his 
armament  had  consisted  of  a  light,  twenty-gauge 
shotgun,  whose  possibilities  for  slaughter  were 
limited  to  rabbits,   spruce-hens,  and  ptarmigan. 

Farther  and  farther  into  the  timber  he  went, 
avoiding  the  outreaching  skidways  and  the  sound 
of  axes.  Broad-webbed  snow-shoe  rabbits  leaped 
from  under  foot  and  scurried  away  in  the  timber, 


316  The  Promise 

and  the  whir  of  an  occasional  ptarmigan  or  spruce- 
hen  passed  unheeded. 

He  was  after  big  game.  He  would  show  Uncle 
Appleton  that  he  could  handle  a  rifle;  and  maybe, 
if  he  killed  a  buck  or  a  wolf  or  a  bobcat,  the  next 
time  he  went  with  them  he  would  be  allowed  to 
carry  a  man's-size  weapon. 

An  hour's  tramp  carried  him  to  the  bank  of  the 
river  at  a  point  several  miles  below  the  camp, 
where  he  seated  himself  upon  a  rotten  log. 

"Blood  River  Jack  just  wanted  to  sleep  to-day, 
so  he  told  'em  it  was  going  to  storm,"  he  solilo- 
quized as  he  surveyed  the  narrow  stretch  of  sky 
which  appeared  above  the  snow-covered  ice  of 
the  river. 

But  somehow  the  sky  did  not  look  as  blue  as  it 
had;  it  was  a  sickly  yellow  color  now,  like  the  after- 
glow of  a  sunset,  and  in  the  center  of  it  hung  the 
sun — a  dull,  copper  sun,  with  uneven,  red  edges 
which  lost  themselves  in  a  hazy  aureola  of  yellow- 
ish light. 

The  boy  glanced  uneasily  about  him.  The 
woods  seemed  uncannily  silent,  and  the  air  thick 
and  heavy,  so  that  the  white  aisle  of  the  river 
blurred  into  dusk  at  its  farther  reaches. 

It  grew  darker,  a  peculiar  fuliginous  darkness, 
which  was  not  of  the  gloom  of  the  forest.  Yet  no 
smell  of  smoke  was  in  the  air,  and  in  the  sky  were 
no  clouds. 

"Looks  kind  of  funny,"  thought  the  boy,  and 
glanced  toward  the  river.     Suddenly  all  thought 


» 


Charlie  Goes  Hunting  317 

of  the  unfamiliar-looking  world  fled  from  his 
brain,  for  there  on  the  snow,  not  twenty  yards 
distant,  half  crouched  a  long,  gray  body  with  the 
claws  of  an  uplifted  forefoot  extended,  and  cruel, 
catlike  lips  drawn  into  a  hideous  snarl. 

The  other  forefoot  rested  upon  the  limp,  furry 
body  of  a  rabbit,  and  the  great,  yellow-green  eyes 
glowed  and  waned  in  the  dimming  light,  while  the 
sharply  tufted  ears  worked  forward  and  back  in 
quick,  nervous  twitches. 

11 A  loup-cervier, "  whispered  the  boy,  and  slowly 
raised  Blood  River  Jack's  rifle  until  the  sights 
lined  exactly  between  the  glowing  eyes.  He 
pulled  the  trigger  and,  at  the  sharp  metallic  click 
with  which  the  hammer  descended  upon  the  firing- 
pin,  the  brute  seized  the  rabbit  between  its  wide, 
blunt  jaws  and  bounded  away  in  long  leaps. 

Hot  tears  of  disappointment  blurred  the  young- 
ster's eyes  and  trickled  down  his  cheeks — he  had 
forgotten  to  load  the  rifle,  and  his  hands  trembled 
as  he  hurriedly  jammed  the  long,  flask-shaped 
cartridges  into  the  magazine  and  followed  down  to 
the  river  on  the  trail  of  the  big  cat. 

He  remembered  as  he  mushed  along  on  his  small 
Tackets  that  Bill  had  told  him  of  a  rocky  ledge  some 
five  or  six  miles  below  camp,  and  had  promised 
to  take  him  to  this  place  where  the  loup-cervier s  had 
their  dens  among  the  rocks. 

The  trail  held  to  the  river,  whose  banks  rose 
more  abruptly  as  he  proceeded,  and  at  length,  as 
he  rounded  a  sharp  bend,  he  could  make  out  dimly 


318  The  Promise 

through  the  thickening  air  the  outline  of  a  high 
rocky  bluff;  but  even  as  he  looked,  the  ledge  was 
blotted  out  by  a  quick  flurry  of  snow,  and  from 
high  among  the  tree-tops  came  a  long,  wailing 
moan  of  wind. 

The  trees  pitched  wildly  in  the  icy  blast;  the 
moan  increased  to  a  mighty  roar,  and  the  air  was 
thick  with  flying  snow.  Not  the  soft,  flaky  snow 
of  the  previous  storm,  but  particles  fine  as  frozen 
fog,  that  bit  and  stung  as  they  whirled  against  his 
face  in  the  eddying  gusts  that  came  from  no  direc- 
tion at  all  and  every  direction  at  once. 

The  boy  bowed  his  head  to  the  storm  and 
pushed  steadily  forward — he  must  kill  the  loup- 
center,  whose  trail  was  growing  momentarily 
more  indistinct. 

His  eyes  could  penetrate  but  a  few  yards  into 
the  white  smother,  and  suddenly  the  dark  wall 
of  the  rock  ledge  loomed  in  front  of  him,  and  the 
trail,  almost  obliterated  now,  turned  sharply  and 
disappeared  between  two  huge,  upstanding  bowl- 
ders. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE  BLIZZARD 

At  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  Bill  Carmody 
ordered  his  teams  to  the  stables. 

At  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  men  crowded  into 
the  grub-shack,  the  air  was  filled  with  fine  particles 
of  flinty  snow,  and  the  roar  of  the  wind  through 
the  pine-tops  was  the  mighty  roar  of  the  surf  of 
a  pounding  sea. 

At  one  o'clock  the  boss  called  "gillon, "  and 
with  loud  shouts  and  rough  horse-play,  the  men 
made  a  rush  for  the  bunk-house. 

At  two  o'clock  Daddy  Dunnigan  thrust  his 
head  through  the  doorway  of  the  shop  where  Bill, 
under  the  blacksmith's  approving  eye,  was  com- 
pleting a  lesson  in  the  proper  welding  of  the  broken 
link  of  a  log  chain. 

With  a  mysterious  quirk  of  the  head  he  motioned 
the  foreman  to  follow,  and  led  the  way  to  the  cook- 
shack,  where  Blood  River  Jack  waited  with  lower- 
ing brow. 

"D'yez  happin  to  know  is  th'  b'y  up  yonder?'* 
asked  the  old  Irishman,  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb 

3*9 


320  The  Promise 

in  the  direction  of  the  house.  Bill  beat  the  dry 
snow  from  his  clothing  as  he  stared  from  one  tc 
the  other. 

"The  boy!"  he  cried.  "What  do  you  mean? 
Come — out  with  it — quick  /" 

"It  is  that  my  rifle  and  belt  have  gone  from 
under  the  bunk,"  Blood  River  Jack  answered. 
1 '  They  were  taken  while  I  slept.  The  boy  did  not 
come  to  dinner  in  the  grub-shack.  Is  it  that  he 
eats  to-day  with  his  people?" 

"Good  Lord!  I  don't  know!  Haven't  you 
seen  him,  Daddy?" 

"Not  since  mebbe  it's  noine  o'clock  in  th' 
marnin',  an'  he  wint  to  th'  bunk-house.  I  thoucht 
he  wuz  wid  Jack."  Bill  thought  rapidly  and 
turned  to  the  old  man. 

"Here,  you,  Daddy — get  a  move  on  now!"  he 
ordered.  "That  ginger  cake  of  yours  that  the  kid 
likes,  hustle  some  of  it  into  a  pail  or  a  basket  or 
something,  and  carry  it  up  to  the  house.  Tell 
them  it's  for  Charlie,  and  you'll  find  out  if  he's 
there.  If  not,  get  out  by  saying  that  he's  probably 
in  the  bunk-house,  and  get  back  here  as  quick  as 
you  can  make  it.  There  is  no  use  in  alarming  the 
people  up  there — yet." 

"Here  you,  Jack,  go  help  the  old  man  along. 
It's  a  tough  job  bucking  that  storm  even  for  a  short 
distance.     Come  now,  beat  it!" 

After  ten  minutes  the  two  returned,  breathless 
from  their  short  battle  with  the  storm. 

"He  ain't  there, "  gasped  the  old  man  and  sank 


The  Blizzard  321 

down  upon  the  wood-box  with  his  head  in  his 
hands.     ' '  God  help  um,  he's  out  in  ut ! " 

"I'm  going  to  the  office,"  said  the  foreman 
and  stepped  out  into  the  whirling  snow. 

"Man!  Man!"  called  Daddy,  springing  to  his 
feet;  "ye  ain't  a  goin'  to  thry — "  The  door 
banged  upon  his  words  and  he  sagged  slowly  onto 
his  rough  seat. 

A  few  minutes  later  Appleton  stamped  into  the 
cook-shack.  "Did  you  find  him,  Daddy?"  he 
asked. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  ' '  He  ain't  in  th' 
camp, "  he  muttered.  "He  tuk  Jack's  gun  whilst 
he  slep'  an'  ut's  huntin'  he's  gone — Lard  hilp  um! " 

"Where    is    Bill?"    the    lumberman    inquired. 

"Av  ye're  quick,  ye  may  catch  um  in  th'  office — ■ 
av  ye  ain't  Oi'm  thinkin'  ye  niver  will  foind  um. 
Be  th'  luk  in  his  eye,  he's  gone  afther  th'  b'y. " 

The  lumberman  plunged  again  into  the  storm 
and  made  his  way  to  the  office.  It  was  empty. 
As  he  turned  heavily  away  the  door  opened  and 
Ethel  Manton  flung  herself  into  the  room,  gasping 
with  exertion.  Giving  no  heed  to  her  uncle's 
presence,  the  girl's  glance  hurriedly  swept  the 
interior. 

Her  hand  clutched  at  the  bosom  of  her  snow- 
powdered  coat  as  she  noted  that  the  faded  mack- 
inaw  was  gone  from  its  accustomed  peg  and  the 
snowshoes  from  their  corner  behind  the  door. 

Instantly  the  truth  flashed  through  her  brain — 
Charlie  was  lost  in  the  seething  blizzard  and  some- 


21 


322  The  Promise 

where  out  in  the  timber  Bill  Carmody  was  search- 
ing for  him. 

With  a  smothered  moan  she  flung  herself  onto 
the  bunk  and  buried  her  face  in  the  blankets. 

The  situation  the  foreman  faced  when  he 
plunged  into  the  whirling  blizzard  in  search  of  the 
boy,  while  calling  for  the  utmost  in  man's  woods- 
manship  and  endurance,  was  not  so  entirely  hope- 
less as  would  appear.  He  remembered  the  intense 
interest  evinced  by  the  boy  a  few  days  before, 
when  he  had  listened  to  the  description  of  the 
rocky  ledge  which  was  the  home  of  the  lonp- 
cerviers,  and  the  eagerness  with  which  he  begged 
to  visit  the  place. 

What  was  more  natural,  he  argued,  than  that 
the  youngster,  finding  himself  in  unexpected 
possession  of  a  rifle  and  ammunition,  had  decided 
to  explore  the  spot  and  do  a  little  hunting  on  his 
own  account? 

The  full  fury  of  the  storm  had  not  broken  until 
noon,  and  he  figured  that  the  boy  would  have  had 
ample  time  to  reach  the  bluff  where  he  could  find 
temporary  shelter  among  the  numerous  caves  of  its 
rocky  formation. 

Upon  leaving  the  office,  the  boss  headed  straight 
for  the  roll  way,  and  the  mere  holding  his  direc- 
tion taxed  his  brain  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
thoughts. 

The  air  was  literally  filled  with  flying  snow 
fine  as   dust,   which   formed   an  opaque  screen 


The  Blizzard  323 

through  which  his  gaze  penetrated  scarcely  an 
arm's  reach. 

Time  and  again  he  strayed  from  the  skidway 
and  brought  up  sharply  against  a  tree,  but  each 
time  he  altered  his  course  and  floundered  ahead 
until  he  found  himself  suddenly  upon  the  steep 
slope  where  the  bank  inclined  to  the  river. 

When  Bill  Carmody  turned  down-stream  the 
gravity  of  his  undertaking  forced  itself  upon  him. 
The  fury  of  the  storm  was  like  nothing  he  had 
ever  experienced. 

The  wind-whipped  particles  cut  and  seared  his 
face  like  a  shower  of  red-hot  needles,  and  the  air 
about  him  was  filled  with  a  dull  roar,  mighty  in 
volume  but  strangely  muffled  by  the  very  dense- 
ness  of  the  snow. 

It  took  all  his  strength  to  push  himself  forward 
against  the  terrific  force  of  the  wind  which  seemed 
to  sweep  from  every  quarter  at  once  into  a  whirling 
vortex  of  which  he  himself  was  the  center. 

One  moment  the  air  was  sucked  from  his  lungs 
by  a  mighty  vacuum,  and  the  next  the  terrible 
compression  upon  his  chest  caused  him  to  gasp 
for  breath. 

The  fine  snow  that  he  inhaled  with  each  breath 
stung  his  lungs  and  he  tied  his  heavy  woolen 
muffler  across  his  mouth.  He  stumbled  fre- 
quently and  floundered  about  to  regain  his  balance. 
He  lost  all  sense  of  direction  and  fought  blindly  on, 
each  bend  of  the  river  bringing  him  blunderingly 
against  one  or  the  other  of  itr  brush-grown  banks. 


324  The  Promise 

The  only  thought  of  his  benumbed  brain  was  to 
make  the  rock  ledge  somewhere  ahead.  It  grew 
dark,  and  the  blackness,  laden  with  the  blinding, 
stinging  particles,  added  horror  to  his  bewilder- 
ment. 

Suddenly  his  snowshoe  struck  against  a  hard 
object,  and  he  pitched  heavily  forward  upon  his 
face  and  lay  still.  He  realized  then  that  he  was 
tired. 

Never  in  his  life  had  he  been  so  utterly  body- 
weary,  and  the  snow  was  soft — soft  and  warm — 
and  the  pelting  ceased. 

He  thrust  his  arm  forward  into  a  more  com- 
fortable position  and  encountered  a  rock,  and 
sluggishly  through  his  benumbed  faculties  passed 
a  train  of  associated  ideas — rock,  rock  ledge, 
loup-cerviers,  the  boy!  With  a  mighty  effort  he 
roused  himself  from  the  growing  lethargy  and 
staggered  blindly  to  his  feet. 

He  filled  his  lungs,  tore  the  ice-incrusted  muffler 
from  his  lips  and,  summoning  all  his  strength,  gave 
voice  to  the  long  call  of  the  woods : 

"Who-o-o-p-e-e-e!" 

But  the  cry  was  cut  off  at  his  lips.  The  terrific 
force  of  the  shifting  gusts  hurled  the  sound  back 
into  his  throat  so  that  it  came  to  his  own  ears 
faint  and  far.  Again  and  again  he  called,  and 
each  time  the  feeble  effort  was  drowned  in  the  dull 
roar  of  the  storm. 

An  unreasoning  rage  at  the  futility  of  it  over- 
came him  and  he  plunged  blindly  ahead,  unheed- 


The  Blizzard  325 

ing,  stumbling,  falling,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
staggering  among  the  tumbled  rocks  at  the  foot  of 
the  bluff — and  then  almost  in  his  ear  came  the 
sharp,  quick  sound  of  a  rifle-shot  and  another  and 
another,  at  a  second  apart — the  distress  signal 
of  the  Northland. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

BUCKING    THE    STORM 

Bill  Carmody  wheeled  against  the  solid  rock 
wall  and  frantically  felt  his  way  along  its  broken 
surface.  His  groping  hands  encountered  a  cleft 
barely  wide  enough  to  admit  the  passage  of  a  man's 
body. 

With  a  final  effort  he  called  again ;  instantly  the 
high,  clear  tones  of  the  boy's  voice  rang  in  his  ears 
from  the  depths  of  the  rock  cavern,  and  the  next 
moment  small  hands  were  tugging  at  his  armpits. 

"Oh!  Bill,  I  knew  you  would  come!"  a  small 
voice  cried  close  to  his  ear.  "It  was  my  last 
three  shots.  I've  been  shooting  every  little  while 
for  hours  and  hours.  Hold  on!  We've  got  to 
take  off  your  snowshoes ;  they  won't  come  through 
the  door." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  man  sat  upon  the  hard 
floor  of  the  cave  which  reeked  of  the  rank  animal 
odor  of  a  long-used  den.  The  place  was  bare  of 
snow  and  he  leaned  back  against  a  soft,  furry 
body  while  the  boy  rattled  on : 

"I  killed  the  loap-cervier !     I  chased  him  in  here 

and  shot  him  right  square  through  the  head.     And 

326 


Bucking  the  Storm  327 

he  never  kicked — just  slunked  down  in  a  heap 
and  dropped  his  rabbit.  And  now,  if  we  had 
some  matches,  we  could  build  a  fire — if  we  had 
some  wood — and  cook  him.  I'm  hungry — aren't 
you?" 

The  boy's  utter  disregard  of  the  real  seriousness 
of  their  plight,  and  the  naive  way  in  which  he 
accepted  the  coming  of  his  friend  as  a  matter  of 
course,  irritated  the  man,  who  listened  in  scowling 
silence. 

"Blood  River  Jack  was  right,"  Charlie  went 
on.  "I  thought  he  just  wanted  a  chance  to  sleep 
for  a  day.  Pretty  good  storm,  isn't  it?  Say,  Bill, 
how  did  he  know  it  was  going  to  snow?" 

"Look  here,  young  man,"  Bill  replied  wrath- 
fully,  "do  you  realize  that  we  are  in  a  mighty  bad 
fix,  right  this  minute?  And  that  it  is  your  fault? 
And  that  there  was  only  about  one  chance  in  a 
thousand  that  I  would  find  you?  And  that  if  we 
ever  get  out  of  this,  and  your  Uncle  Appleton  don't 
give  you  a  darn  good  whaling,  I  will  ?"  The  man 
felt  a  small  body  press  close  against  him  in  the 
darkness. 

"Honest,  Bill,  I'm  sorry,"  a  subdued  voice 
answered.  "  I  thought  Jack  was  fooling,  and  I  did 
want  to  show  'em  I  could  kill  something  bigger 
than  a  rabbit.  You  aren't  mad,  are  you,  Bill?  I 
hope  Eth  won't  worry ;  we'll  prob'ly  have  to  stay 
here  all  night,  won't  we?" 

"All  night!  Won't  worry!  Don't  you  know 
that  this  is  a   regular  blizzard — the  kind  that 


CHAPTER  XLII 

BUCKING    THE    STORM 

Bill  Carmody  wheeled  against  the  solid  rock 
wall  and  frantically  felt  his  way  along  its  broken 
surface.  His  groping  hands  encountered  a  cleft 
barely  wide  enough  to  admit  the  passage  of  a  man's 
body. 

With  a  final  effort  he  called  again ;  instantly  the 
high,  clear  tones  of  the  boy's  voice  rang  in  his  ears 
from  the  depths  of  the  rock  cavern,  and  the  next 
moment  small  hands  were  tugging  at  his  armpits. 

"Oh!  Bill,  I  knew  you  would  come!"  a  small 
voice  cried  close  to  his  ear.  "It  was  my  last 
three  shots.  I've  been  shooting  every  little  while 
for  hours  and  hours.  Hold  on!  We've  got  to 
take  off  your  snowshoes ;  they  won't  come  through 
the  door." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  man  sat  upon  the  hard 
floor  of  the  cave  which  reeked  of  the  rank  animal 
odor  of  a  long-used  den.  The  place  was  bare  of 
snow  and  he  leaned  back  against  a  soft,  furry 
body  while  the  boy  rattled  on : 

"  I  killed  the  loup-cervier !     I  chased  him  in  here 

and  shot  him  right  square  through  the  head.     And 

326 


Bucking  the  Storm  327 

he  never  kicked — just  slunked  down  in  a  heap 
and  dropped  his  rabbit.  And  now,  if  we  had 
some  matches,  we  could  build  a  fire — if  we  had 
some  wood — and  cook  him.  I'm  hungry — aren't 
you?" 

The  boy's  utter  disregard  of  the  real  seriousness 
of  their  plight,  and  the  naive  way  in  which  he 
accepted  the  coming  of  his  friend  as  a  matter  of 
course,  irritated  the  man,  who  listened  in  scowling 
silence. 

"Blood  River  Jack  was  right,"  Charlie  went 
on.  "I  thought  he  just  wanted  a  chance  to  sleep 
for  a  day.  Pretty  good  storm,  isn't  it?  Say,  Bill, 
how  did  he  know  it  was  going  to  snow?" 

"Look  here,  young  man,"  Bill  replied  wrath- 
fully,  "do  you  realize  that  we  are  in  a  mighty  bad 
fix,  right  this  minute?  And  that  it  is  your  fault? 
And  that  there  was  only  about  one  chance  in  a 
thousand  that  I  would  find  you?  And  that  if  we 
ever  get  out  of  this,  and  your  Uncle  Appleton  don't 
give  you  a  darn  good  whaling,  I  will  ?"  The  man 
felt  a  small  body  press  close  against  him  in  the 
darkness. 

"Honest,  Bill,  I'm  sorry,"  a  subdued  voice 
answered.  "  I  thought  Jack  was  fooling,  and  I  did 
want  to  show  'em  I  could  kill  something  bigger 
than  a  rabbit.  You  aren't  mad,  are  you,  Bill?  I 
hope  Eth  won't  worry ;  we'll  prob'ly  have  to  stay 
here  all  night,  won't  we?" 

"All  night!  Won't  worry!  Don't  you  know 
that  this  is  a   regular  blizzard — the  kind   that 


328  The  Promise 

kills  men  at  their  own  doors — and  that  it  ma}?-  last 
for  a  week?  And  here  we  are  with  no  fire- wood, 
and  nothing  to  eat !  The  chances  are  mighty  good 
that  we'll  never  see  camp  again — and  you  pipe 
up  and  hope  your  sister  won't  worry!" 

Charlie  leaned  over  closer  against  Carmody's 
body. 

"Why,  we've  got  to  get  back,  Bill!"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  was  very  earnest  now.  "We're 
all  Eth's  got — you  and  me — and  she  needs  us." 

The  boy  felt  a  sudden  tightening  of  the  muscles 
beneath  the  heavy  mackinaw,  and  the  quick  gasp 
of  an  indrawn  breath.  A  big  arm  stole  about  his 
shoulders.  The  harshness  was  gone  from  Bill's 
voice,  and  when  he  spoke  the  sound  fell  softly  upon 
the  culprit's  ears. 

"Sure,  kid,  we'll  get  back.  Buck  up!  We've 
got  a  fighting  chance,  and  that's  all  we  need — men 
like  you  and  me.  Life  up  here  is  a  hard  game, 
kid,  but  we're  no  quitters!  This  is  just  one  of 
the  rough  places  in  the  long,  long  trail. 

"And,  say,  kid — just  man  to  man — I  want  you 
always  to  remember  that — she  needs  you — and 
some  day  she  may  need  you  bad.  This  St.  Ledger 
may  be  all  right,  but " 

"St.    Ledger!"     The    voice    of    the    boy    cut 
sharply  upon  the  darkness.     "  Say,  Bill,  you  aren't 
going  to  marry  Blood  River  Jack's  sister,  are  you?  " 
'  "What!" 

"Why,  Blood  River  Jack's  sister,  you  know, 
that  helped  fish  you  out  of  the  river. " 


Bucking  the  Storm  329 

"Lord!  No!  What  ever  put  that  into  your 
head?" 

"Blood  River  Jack  told  us  when  we  were  coming 
out  about  you — only  we  didn't  know  it  was  you, 
then.  And  he  said  that  his  sister  was  pretty, 
and  she  loved  you,  and  she  went  down  the  river 
with  you  for  three  or  four  days,  or  something. 
And  Eth  thinks  you  love  this  half-breed  girl. 
And,  maybe,  if  you  did  marry  her,  Eth  would 
marry  St.  Ledger;  but  she  don't  love  him." 

Bill  sat  suddenly  erect,  and  the  arm  about 
the  boy's  shoulder  tightened  and  shook  him 
roughly. 

"Look  here!  How  do  you  know?  I  read  an 
account  of  their  engagement  'way  along  last 
winter. " 

"That  was  a  dang  lie!  'Cause  I  was  in  the 
den  when  she  called  St.  Ledger  up  about  it.  She 
gave  him  the  darndest  talking  to  he  ever  got,  and 
she  told  him  she  never  would  marry  him  as  long 
as  she  lived.  And  Eth  does  love  you!  And  you 
ought  to  heard  her  stick  up  for  you  when  old " 

The  boy  stopped  abruptly,  suddenly  remember- 
ing his  uncle's  injunction  of  silence.  "There's  an 
old  dead  tree  right  close  to  the  door  of  the  cave," 
he  added  hastily.  "We  might  get  some  wood  off 
that." 

' '  What  were  you  saying ? ' '  inquired  Bill.  ' '  Never 
mind  the  wood." 

"Nothing — I  forget,  I  mean.  Come  on,  let's 
get  some  wood — I'm  hungry." 


2,30  The  Promise 

And  in  spite  of  his  most  persistent  efforts,  not 
another  word  could  Bill  Carmody  get  out  of  the 
youngster,   except   the  mournful   soliloquy   that: 

"I  bet  Uncle  Appleton  will  whale  me — anyway, 
he  couldn't  whale  as  hard  as  you." 

In  the  thick  blackness  of  the  storm  the  man 
groped  blindly  near  the  snow-choked  entrance 
to  the  den,  guided  in  his  search  for  the  dead  tree 
by  the  voice  of  the  boy  from  the  interior. 

It  was  no  easy  task  to  twist  off  the  dead  limbs 
and  carry  them  one  by  one  to  the  cavern  where 
the  boy  piled  them  against  the  wall.  At  length, 
however,  it  was  accomplished,  and  Bill  crept  in 
and  whittled  a  pile  of  fine  shavings. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  flicker  of  a  tiny  flame 
flashed  up,  the  shavings  ignited,  and  the  narrow 
cavity  lighted  to  the  crackle  of  the  fire.  Together 
they  skinned  the  rabbit  which  the  dead  lynx  had 
dropped,  and  soon  they  were  busily  engaged  in 
roasting  it  over  the  flames. 

The  two  were  far  from  comfortable.  Despite 
the  fact  that  the  fire  had  been  built  as  near  as 
possible  to  the  entrance,  the  smoke  whipped  back 
into  their  faces.  The  air  became  blue  and  heavy, 
they  coughed,  and  tears  streamed  from  their  eyes 
at  the  sting  of  it. 

"I'm  thirsty,"  said  the  boy,  as  he  finished  his 
portion  of  the  rabbit.  "I  guess  we'll  have  to  eat 
snow;  there's  nothing  to  melt  it  in." 

"Never  eat  snow,"  the  man  cautioned  as  his 
eyes  swept  the  barren  interior. 


Bucking  the  Storm  331 


''Why  not?" 

"It  will  burn  you  out.  I  don't  know  why,  but 
when  a  man  starts  eating  snow,  it's  all  off." 

Directly  in  front  of  him,  in  the  rock  floor,  was 
a  slight  depression,  and  with  a  stick  Eill  scraped 
the  fire  close  to  this  natural  basin  and  filled  it  with 
dry  snow.  At  the  end  of  ten  minutes  the  snow 
had  melted,  leaving  a  pool  of  filthy,  black  water. 

"It's  the  best  we  can  do,"  laughed  the  man 
as  the  boy  made  a  wry  face  as  he  gulped  down  a 
swallow  of  the  bitter  floor- washing. 

They  set  about  skinning  the  loup-cervier,  and 
spread  the  pelt  upon  the  floor  for  a  robe. 

"We'll  have  to  tackle  the  cat  for  breakfast," 
grinned  Bill. 

"Oh,  this  is  fun!"  cried  the  boy.  "It's  like 
getting  cast  away  and  living  in  a  cave,  like  you 
read  about."  But  the  humor  of  the  situation 
failed  to  enthuse  Bill,  who  lighted  his  pipe  and 
stared  moodily  into  the  tiny  fire. 

The  two  spent  a  most  uncomfortable  night, 
their  brief  snatches  of  sleep  being  interrupted  by 
long  hours  of  wakefulness  when  they  huddled 
close  to  the  small  blaze. 

The  scarcity  of  wood  and  the  danger  of  suffo- 
cation precluded  the  building  of  an  adequate 
fire,  and  the  miserable  night  wore  interminably 
upon  the  nerves  of  the  imprisoned  pair. 

At  last  the  dull  gray  light  of  morning  dispersed 
the  gloom,  and  the  two  crept  to  the  snow-choked 
door. 


332  The  Promise 

The  storm  raged  unabated,  and  their  eyes 
could  not  penetrate  the  opaque  whiteness  of 
the  powdery  snow.  Bill  gathered  more  fire- 
wood, cut  up  the  lynx,  and  roasted  the  hams, 
shoulders,  and  back. 

The  meat  was  dry  and  stringy,  with  a  dis- 
agreeable, strong  flavor  that  savored  intimately  of 
the  rancid  odor  of  the  den.  Nevertheless,  they 
devoured  a  great  quantity  of  the  tough,  unpala- 
table food,  washing  it  down  with  bitter  drafts 
from  the  pool  of  dirty  snow-water,  thick  with 
ashes  and  the  pungent  animal  reek. 

Again  the  man  filled  his  pipe  and  sat  gazing  out 
upon  the  whirling  void. 

"Bill,  let's  try  it,"  said  a  voice  at  his  elbow. 
"  She's  waiting  for  us — and  worrying. " 

Carmody  glanced  quickly  into  the  determined 
little  face.  The  boy  had  voiced  his  own  thoughts 
to  the  letter,  and  he  remained  long  without  speak- 
ing, carefully  weighing  the  chances. 

"It's  better  than  staying  here,"  pursued  the 
youngster;  "'Cause,  if  we  don't  snufncate,  we'll 
starve  to  death,  or  freeze.  We  can  tie  us  to  each 
other  so  we  won't  get  lost,  and  all  we  got  to  do  is 
stick  to  the  river.  I  can  make  it  if  you  can,"  he 
added  naively. 

Bill  grinned,  and  then  his  eyes  became  serious 
and  he  began  methodically  to  stow  the  remains 
of  the  roast  cat  into  his  pockets. 

"It's  going  to  be  an  awful  pull,  kid.  You  are 
a  man,  now,  and  I'll  give  it  to  you  straight — maybe 


Bucking  the  Storm  333 

we'll  make  it,  and  maybe  we  won't.  But  I'd  hate 
to  'snumcate' — and  she  is  worrying.  We'll  try 
it — and  God  help  us,  if  we  don't  keep  the  river. " 

The  skin  of  the  lynx  was  cut  into  strips  and 
fashioned  into  a  rawhide  line  which  Bill  made  fast 
to  their  belts,  leaving  plenty  of  slack  to  allow  free 
use  of  the  rackets.  The  rifle  was  left  in  the  cave, 
and,  muffled  to  the  ears,  the  two  stepped  out  into 
the  storm. 

Bill  judged  it  to  be  well  after  noon  when  a  sudden 
tightening  of  the  line  brought  him  to  an  abrupt 
halt. 

Many  times  during  the  long  hours  in  which 
they  forged  slowly  ahead  had  the  line  gone  taut  as 
the  boy  fell  in  the  snow,  but  each  time  it  was 
followed  by  a  wriggling  and  tugging,  and  the 
youngster  scrambled  gamely  to  his  feet  and  flound- 
ered on  in  the  wake  of  his  big  friend. 

But  this  time  Carmody  waited  in  vain  for  the 
movement  of  the  line  that  would  tell  him  that  the 
boy  was  regaining  his  feet — the  line  remained 
taut,  and  Bill  turned  and  groped  in  the  snow. 
He  lifted  the  boy  to  his  feet,  but  the  small  body 
sagged  limply  against  his  own,  and  the  head 
rolled  weakly. 

He  shook  him  roughly  and,  with  his  lips  close 
to  the  boy's  ear,  shouted  words  of  encouragement. 
But  his  only  answer  was  a  dull  look  from  the  half- 
closed  eyes,  and  a  sleepily  muttered  jumble  of 
words,  in  which  he  made  out:  " Can't  make  it — all 
in — go  on — she  does  love  you." 


334  The  Promise 

Again  and  again  he  tried  to  rouse  him,  but  all  to 
no  purpose ;  the  boy  had  battled  bravely  to  the  end 
of  his  endurance,  and  now  only  wanted  to  be  let 
alone.  Bill  sat  beside  him  in  the  snow  and, 
sheltering  him  as  best  he  could  from  the  sting  of 
the  wind-driven  particles,  produced  a  piece  of  the 
meat  from  his  pocket. 

The  boy  gnawed  it  feebly,  and  the  food  revived 
him  somewhat,  so  that  for  a  few  rods  he  staggered 
on,  but  the  line  again  tightened,  and  this  time 
the  man  knew  that  it  was  useless  to  attempt  to 
arouse  his  little  companion. 

Hurriedly  removing  his  mackinaw,  he  wrapped 
it  around  the  body  of  the  boy  and,  by  means  of  a 
11  squaw  hitch"  sling,  swung  him  to  his  back.  The 
boy's  dangling  rackets  hindered  his  movement, 
and  he  slashed  the  thongs  and  left  them  in  the 
snow. 

Then,  straining  the  last  atom  of  his  vitality,  he 
plunged  ahead. 

The  early  darkness  of  the  North  country  settled 
about  the  staggering  man.  His  progress  was 
painfully  slow  and,  without  sense  of  direction,  he 
wallowed  forward,  stumbling,  falling,  struggling 
to  his  feet  only  to  fall  again  a  few  rods  farther  on. 

The  weight  of  the  boy  seemed  to  crush  him  into 
the  snow,  and  each  time  it  became  harder  and 
harder  to  regain  his  feet  against  the  merciless 
rush  of  the  blizzard. 

He  lost  all  hope  of  making  camp.  He  did  not 
know  whether  it  was  near  or  far,  he  only  knew 


Bucking  the  Storm  335 

that  he  was  upon  the  river,  and  that  he  must  push 
on  and  on. 

He  realized  dully  that  he  might  easily  have 
passed  the  rollways  hours  ago.  He  even  con- 
sidered doubling  back;  but  what  was  the  use?  If 
he  passed  them  once,  he  would  pass  them  again. 

Every  drop  of  his  righting  blood  was  up.  He 
would  push  on  to  the  end.  He  would  die,  of 
course;  but  he  wouldn't  die  yet!  And  when  he  did 
die,  he  would  fall  to  die — he  would  never  lie  down 
to  die! 

It  was  not  far  off,  he  knew — that  fall,  when  he 
would  never  get  up.  He  wondered  who  would 
find  them;  Blood  River  Jack,  probably.  As  he 
leaned  into  the  whirling,  cutting  wind,  he  thought 
of  Jeanne  and  of  his  promise  to  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. 

His  fists  clenched,  and  a  few  more  rods  were 
gained.  He  thought  of  Ethel,  and  of  what  Charlie 
had  told  him  in  the  cave : 

11  She  needs  us;  we're  all  she's  got — you  and  me." 

Again  the  fists  in  the  heavy  mittens  clenched, 
and  more  rods  were  covered.  It  was  growing 
black;  the  white  smother  of  snow  ceased  to  dance 
before  his  eyes.  His  advance  now  was  hesitating, 
dogged;   each  step  became   a   measure   of  time, 

He  reeled  suddenly  against  an  unyielding  object. 
A  tree,  he  thought,  and  grasped  it  for  support  as 
he  struggled  to  get  his  bearings.  He  was  off 
the  river;  yet,  when  had  he  ascended  the  bank? 

The  tree  felt  smooth  to  the  touch,  and  he  moved 
his  mittens  up  and  down  the  trunk.     Suddenly  he 


336  The  Promise 

realized  that  it  was  no  tree,  but  a  skinned  pole. 
His  numbed  brain  groped  dully  as  his  hands 
traveled  up  and  down  its  smooth  length. 

At  the  height  of  his  waist  he  encountered  a  rope, 
and  at  the  feel  of  the  heavy  line  the  blood  surged  to 
his  head,  clearing  his  brain. 

1 '  The  water-hole f"  he  cried  thickly.  ' '  They've 
roped  off  the  water-hole!"  Frantically  he  pulled 
himself  along,  hand  over  hand.  The  rope  seemed 
endless,  stretching  from  stake  to  stake. 

He  was  ascending  the  bank  now  at  the  foot  of 
the  rollways — and,  at  the  top  was  the  camp ! 

He  exerted  his  strength  to  the  uttermost  ounce, 
heaving  and  lifting  with  the  huge  muscles  of  his 
legs,  and  pulling  with  his  arms  until  it  seemed 
they  must  be  torn  from  his  shoulders,  inching 
himself  along,  gasping,  sweating,  straining. 

The  incline  grew  steeper,  his  frozen  mittens 
slipped,  the  guide-rope  tore  from  his  grasp,  and  he 
pitched  heavily  backward  into  the  soft  smother. 

He  struggled  helplessly.  Something  seemed 
pressing  him  down,  down — at  last  he  was  home. 
He  had  won  out  against  the  terrible  odds,  and  the 
boy  was  safe. 

He  had  brought  him  back  to  her,  and  now  he 
must  sleep.  How  warm  and  comfortable  it  was  in 
the  bunk.  He  did  not  know  a  man  could  be  so 
sleepy. 

What  was  it  the  girl  was  singing  as  he  passed 
her  window  only  a  few  nights  ago — when  he  paused 
in  the  darkness  of  the  clearing  to  listen? 


Bucking  the  Storm  337 

Dreamily  the  words  floated  through  his  brain: 

"  And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town." 

But  he  had  come  back.  He  smiled  vaguely; 
they  needn't  wring  their  hands  and  weep — and  the 
rest  of  it : 

"  For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep, 
And  good-by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning." 

Sleep!  That's  what  he  needed — sleep.  He 
could  sleep  forever  and  ever,  here  in  his  warm, 
warm  bunk.  And  the  moaning  of  the  bar — he 
liked  that ;  he  could  hear  it  moaning  now — roaring 
and  moaning. 

Bill  Carmody  closed  his  eyes.  The  fine,  sifting 
snow  came  and  covered  his  body  and  the  smaller 
body  of  the  boy  who  was  lashed  firmly  to  his 
broad  back — and  all  about  him  the  blizzard  howled 
and  roared  and  moaned. 

And  it  was  night ! 

33 


CHAPTER    XLIII 

IN    CAMP    AGAIN 

The  violence  of  the  storm  precluded  the  use  of 
horses  about  the  camp,  and  the  trail  that  slanted 
from  the  clearing  to  the  water-hole  was  soon 
drifted  high  with  snow,  rendering  useless  the  heavy 
tank-sled.  Fallon,  who  had  been  placed  in 
temporary  charge  of  the  camp,  told  the  men  into 
water-shifts;  barrels  were  lashed  to  strong  sleds 
and  man-hauled  to  the  top  of  the  bank,  where  the 
guide-rope  had  been  run  to  the  water-hole. 

The  men  of  the  shift  formed  a  long  line  reaching 
from  the  sled  to  the  river,  and  the  water  dipped 
from  the  hole  cut  in  the  ice  was  passed  from  man  to 
man  in  buckets  to  be  dumped  into  the  barrels  and 
distributed  between  the  stables,  cook-shack,  bunk- 
house,  and  "house." 

Darkness  had  fallen  when  the  men  of  the  after- 
noon shift  wallowed  toward  the  river  upon  the  last 
trip  of  the  second  day  of  the  great  blizzard.  The 
roar  of  the  wind  as  it  hurled  the  frozen  particles 
against  their  cold-benumbed  faces  drowned  their 
muttered  curses  as,  thirty  strong,  they  pushed 
and  hauled  the  cumbersome  sled  to  the  top  of  the 
bank.     Seizing  the  buckets,  they  strung  out,  mak- 

338 


In  Camp  Again  339 

ing  their  way  down  the  steep  slope  with  one  hand 
on  the  guide-rope. 

Suddenly  the  foremost  man  stumbled  and  fell. 
He  scrambled  profanely  to  his  knees  and  began 
feeling  about  in  the  thick  darkness  for  his  bucket. 
His  mittened  hand  came  into  contact  with  the  ob- 
ject which,  protruding  from  the  snow,  had  tripped 
him,  and  with  a  vicious  wrench  he  endeavored  to 
remove  it  from  the  trail.  It  yielded  a  little,  but 
remained  firmly  imbedded. 

With  a  wild  yell  he  forgot  his  bucket  and  began 
digging  and  clawing  in  the  snow,  for  the  object 
he  grasped  was  the  bent  ash  edge  of  a  snowshoe, 
and  firmly  lashed  in  the  center  of  the  webbing  was 
the  moccasined  foot  of  a  man. 

Other  men  came,  floundering  and  sprawling  over 
each  other  in  the  darkness,  and  the  word  was 
bellowed  from  lips  to  listening  ear  that  a  man  lay 
buried  beneath  the  drift. 

' '  Dig !  Ye  tarriers ! ' '  roared  Fallon  as  his  heavy 
mittens  gouged  into  the  snow.  "Dig!  Ut's  th' 
boss!"  he  yelled  into  the  ear  of  the  nearest  man. 
"Oi  know  thim  rackets!" 

And  from  lip  to  bearded  lip  the  word  passed, 
and  the  big  men  of  the  logs  redoubled  their  efforts ; 
but  the  fine  snow  had  packed  hard  around  the 
prostrate  form,  and  it  was  many  minutes  before 
they  had  uncovered  him  sufficiently  to  note  the 
smaller  body  lashed  tightly  upon  his  back.  The 
frozen  lash  was  soon  severed  and  the  two  exani- 
mate bodies  lifted  in  eager  hands. 


342  The  Promise 

for  one  boy  lost  in  the  snow,  and  carry  him  home 
in  safety." 

The  half-breed  finished,  and  the  girl,  with  a  low 
cry,  sank  into  a  chair  and,  leaning  forward  upon 
the  desk,  buried  her  face  in  her  arms  while  her 
shoulders  shook  with  the  violence  of  her  sobbing. 

Appleton  crossed  to  her  side  and  laid  a  hand 
gently  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Come,  Ethel,"  he  said;  "this  has  been  too 
much  for  you.     Let  me  take  you  to  the  house. " 

But  the  girl  shook  her  head.  She  raised  her 
eyes,  wet  with  tears,  and  with  an  effort  controlled 
her  voice. 

"My  place  is  here — with  him,"  she  said  softly 
as  she  arose,  and,  walking  to  the  side  of  the  cot, 
looked  down  at  the  set  face  of  the  unconscious 
man.  "Leave  me  alone  now.  There  is  nothing 
you  can  do.  I  will  stay  with  him  while  you  sleep. 
Draw  your  cot  close  to  the  wall,  and  if  I  need  you  I 
will  knock.  Jacques  will  go  to  the  cook-shack, " 
she  added,  turning  to  the  half-breed,  "and  when 
the  broth  is  ready  bring  it  to  me. " 

The  men  obeyed  without  question,  and  as  the 
office  door  closed  behind  them  the  girl  dropped  to 
her  knees  beside  the  bunk  and,  throwing  her  arms 
about  the  man's  neck,  pressed  her  soft  cheek  close 
against  his  bearded  face 

The  little  tin  lamp  in  its  bracket  beside  the 
row  of  books  on  the  top  of  the  desk  was  turned  low 
and  its  yellow  light  illuminated  dimly  the  interior 
of  the  rough  room.     She  slipped  into  an  easier 


In  Camp  Again  343 

position  and,  seated  upon  the  floor  at  the  edge  of 
the  low  bunk,  drew  his  head  close  against  her 
breast.  At  the  touch — the  feel  of  this  strong  man 
lying  helpless  in  her  arms — the  long-pent  yearning 
of  her  soul  burst  the  studied  bonds  of  its  restraint 
and  through  her  whole  body  swept  the  torrent  of  a 
mighty  love. 

Resistlessly  it  engulfed  every  nerve  and  fiber  of 
her — wave  upon  wave  of  wild,  primitive  passion 
surged  through  her  veins  until  her  heart  seemed 
bursting  with  the  sweet,  intense  pain  of  it. 
Fiercely,  in  the  hot,  quick  flame  of  passion,  she 
strained  him  to  her  breast  and  her  lips  sought  his 
in  an  abandon  of  feverish  kisses. 

And  in  that  moment  she  knew  that,  in  all  the 
world  of  men,  this  man  was  lier  man.  Always  he 
had  dominated  her  life — always  she  had  known 
this  great  love,  had  fought  against  it,  and  feared 
it — and  always  she  had  held  it  in  check. 

But  now,  alone  in  the  night,  with  the  man  lying 
helpless  in  her  arms,  this  mighty  passion  welled  to 
the  bursting  of  restraint. 

Her  heart,  subservient  no  longer  to  the  will  of 
her  brain  nor  to  creeds  nor  the  tenets  of  con- 
vention, had  this  night  come  into  its  own,  and  she 
loved  with  the  hot,  savage  mate-love  of  her  pristine 
forebears. 

The  man's  lips  moved  feebly  upon  hers  and  the 
closed  eyelids  fluttered.  The  girl  sprang  to  the 
stove  and  returned  a  second  later  bearing  a  thick 
porcelain  cup  steaming  with  strong,  black  coffee. 


344  The  Promise 

She  raised  his  head  upon  her  arm  and,  holding 
the  cup,  let  part  of  its  contents  trickle  between 
his   lips.     He   strangled   weakly   and   swallowed. 

Again  she  tilted  the  cup  and  again  he  swallowed. 
"My  darling!  My  darling!"  she  sobbed  as  the 
fluttering  eyelids  half  opened  and  the  lips  moved, 
and  then  leaned  close  to  catch  their  faintest 
murmur. 

"Jeanne,"  he  whispered,  "Jeanne,  little  girl — " 
and  then  the  lips  ceased  to  move,  he  shuddered 
slightly  through  the  length  of  him,  his  eyes  closed, 
and  he  slept. 

The  thick  cup  thudded  heavily  upon  the  floor 
and  its  contents  splashed  unheeded  over  her 
gown,  as  the  girl  sat  motionless,  staring  past  the 
bunk  at  the  blank  wall  of  logs. 

The  little  nickel-plated  alarm-clock  ticked 
loudly  in  sharp,  insistent  threes,  as  she  sat,  white 
of  face,  with  set  lips  and  unwinking  eyes  staring 
stonily  at  the  parallel  logs  of  the  wall. 

Centuries  of  supercultivation  and  the  refine- 
ment of  breeding  were  concentrated  in  that  white- 
lipped,  cold-eyed  stare,  which  is  the  heart-mask  of 
the  recherche  woman  of  empire.  And  then — the 
mask  dropped. 

The  inevitable  artificiality  of  years  of  uncon- 
scious eugenic  selection  melted  in  a  breath  before 
the  fierce  onrush  of  savage  emotion.  The  girl 
sprang  to  her  feet  as  the  hot  blood  surged  to  her 
face  and  paced  frantically  back  and  forth  in  a  fume 
of  primordial  hate.     Her  small  fists  clenched  till 


In  Camp  Again  345 

pink  nails  bit  deep  into  soft,  pink  palms.  Her 
nostrils  dilated,  quivering;  her  eyes  flashed,  and 
the  breath  hissed  through  her  lips  in  deep  sobs  of 
impotent  rage  against  the  woman  who  had  robbed 
her  of  this  man's  love  and  whose  name  was  upon 
his  lips  in  the  first  moment  of  his  awakening. 

She  paused  and  gazed  into  the  face  of  the  man 
who  was  the  hero  of  her  fondest  dreams — the  man 
who  had  overcome  obstacles,  who  defied  danger 
and  death,  and  had  won,  with  his  two  hands  and 
the  great  force  of  his  personality,  the  respect  and 
devotion  of  the  big  men  of  the  rough  country. 

And  he  was  hers — never  had  he  been  aught  else 
but  hers — and  she  had  lost  him!  Wildly  she 
resumed  her  restless  pacing,  while  the  words  of 
the  half-breed  rang  in  her  ears:  "She  is  beautiful, 
and  she  loves  him." 

She  halted  abruptly,  and  in  her  eye  flashed  a 
momentary  ray  of  hope;  the  man  had  said,  not 
"He  loves  her,"  but,  "She  loves  him."  Could  it 
be — but,  no,  there  were  his  own  words,  spoken  at 
the  time  of  their  first  meeting  in  the  gloom  of  this 
very  room:  "I  forgot  that  I  have  not  the  right — 
that  there  is  another." 

And  was  it  not  her  name  that  sprang  to  his  lips 
in  the  half -consciousness  of  a  few  moments  ago? 
In  her  mind  she  pictured  the  wild,  dark  beauty 
of  the  other  girl,  and  in  the  jealous  fury  of  her 
heart  could  have  torn  her  in  pieces  with  her  two 
hands. 

"M'sV  Bill  drinks  no  whisky" — the  dream  of 


346  The  Promise 

her  life  had  been  realized,  but  in  the  realization 
she  had  been  beaten — all  her  hopes  and  prayers, 
the  long,  bitter  hours  of  her  soul-anguish,  which 
burned  and  gnawed  beneath  the  stoicism  and 
apathy  her  environment  demanded,  had  gone 
for  naught,  and  she,  who  had  borne  the  brunt 
of  the  long  battle,  was  brushed  aside  and  for- 
gotten. 

The  spoils  belonged  to  another — and  that  other, 
an  Indian! 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

THE    MISSING    BONDS 

The  walls  of  the  room  seemed  the  restraining 
bars  of  a  prison,  shutting  her  apart  from  life  and 
the  right  to  love.  She  lifted  the  latch  and  flung 
open  the  door,  standing  upon  the  threshold  amid 
the  seething  inrush  of  the  storm. 

The  fine  snow  felt  good  against  her  throbbing 
temples,  and  she  stared  into  the  blackness  whose 
whirling  chaos  voiced  the  violence  of  the  heart- 
storm  that  raged  within  her  breast.  He  had 
conquered  the  storm ! 

She  shivered  as  an  icy  blast  sent  the  snow- 
powder  flying  half  across  the  room,  closed  the 
door,  and  resumed  her  tireless  journey  to  and  fro, 
to  and  fro,  and  at  each  turn  she  glanced  at  the 
sleeping  man. 

She  dropped  to  her  knees  beside  the  bunk  and 
looked  long  into  his  rugged  face.  He,  too,  had 
suffered.  She  remembered  the  deep  hurt  in  his 
eyes  at  their  parting.     Yet  he  was  not  beaten. 

She  had  sent  him  from  her,  heartsick  and  alone 
into  the  great  world,  and  he  had  fought  and  con- 
quered and  earned  a  place  among  men. 

347 


34-2  The  Promise 

And  as  the  girl  looked,  her  eyes  grew  tender  and 
the  pain  in  her  heart  seemed  more  than  she  could 
bear.  When  she  rose  to  her  feet  the  savage  hatred 
was  gone  from  her  heart,  and  in  its  place  was 
determination — the  determination  to  win  back 
the  love  of  this  man. 

She,  too,  would  fight,  even  as  he  had  fought — 
and  win.  He  had  not  been  discouraged  and 
beaten.  She  remembered  the  look  upon  his  face 
as  he  strode  toward  her  that  morning  on  the  skid- 
way  in  search  of  Leduc. 

Unconsciously  her  tiny  fists  doubled,  her 
delicate  white  jaw  squared,  and  her  eyes  narrowed 
to  slits,  even  as  his  had  narrowed- — but  her  lips 
did  not  smile. 

He  was  her  man !  She  could  give  him  more  than 
this  half-breed  girl  could  give  him,  and  she  would 
fight  to  win  back  her  own — that  which  had  been 
her  own  from  the  first. 

Almost  at  her  feet  upon  the  floor,  just  under 
the  edge  of  the  bunk  where  it  had  been  carelessly 
tossed,  lay  his  mackinaw  of  coarse,  striped  cloth. 
The  girl  stooped,  drew  it  forth,  and  smoothed  it 
out. 

"His  coat,"  she  breathed  almost  reverently 
as  she  patted  its  rough  folds.  "He  took  it  off 
and  wrapped  it  around  Charlie.  Oh,  it  must 
have  been  terrible — terrible 7" 

She  was  about  to  hang  it  upon  its  peg  when 
something  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  sharp  slap — a 
long,  heavy  envelope  that  had  dropped  from  a 


The  Missing  Bonds  349 

ragged   tear   in   the   lining   where   the   men   hsd 
ripped  it  from  the  body  of  the  boy. 

She  hung  the  garment  upon  its  peg  and  stooped 
to  recover  the  packet.  The  envelope  was  old,  and 
had  evidently  been  exposed  to  the  action  of  water, 
for  the  flap  gaped  open  and  the  edges  were  worn 
through  at  the  ends.  Upon  one  side  was  tightly 
bound  a  photograph,  dim  and  indistinct  from 
the  rub  of  the  coarse  cloth. 

Her  lips  tightened  at  the  corners  as  she  stepped 
to  the  desk  and  turned  up  the  lamp.  She  would 
see  what  manner  of  girl  it  was  who  had  scored 
so  heavily  against  her  in  this  battle  of  hearts. 
She  held  the  picture  close  to  the  yellow  flame  and 
stared  unbelievingly  at  the  nearly  effaced  features. 

With  a  swift  movement  she  tore  the  encircling 
cord  from  the  packet  and  examined  it  more  closely. 
Her  heart  beat  wildly,  and  the  blood  surged 
through  her  veins  in  great,  joyous  waves.  For  the 
photograph  showed,  not  the  dark  features  of  the 
Indian  girl,  but — her  own! 

Worn  almost  beyond  recognition  it  was,  with 
corners  peeled  and  rolled  back  from  the  warped 
and  water-thickened  mounting — but  unmistaka- 
bly her  picture. 

"He  cares!  He  does  care!"  she  repeated  over 
and  over.  "  Oh,  my  boy !  My  boy ! ' '  And  then 
her  eyes  fell  upon  the  thick  envelope  with  its  worn 
edges  and  open  flap  which  lay  unheeded  upon  the 
desk-top. 

Mechanically  she  reached  for  it,  and  her  hand 


350  The  Promise 

came  in  contact  with  its  thick,  heavily  engraved 
contents.  She  raised  the  papers  to  the  light  and 
stared;  there  were  five  in  all,  neatly  folded,  lying 
one  upon  another. 

The  green  background  of  the  topmost  one  was 
faded  and  streaked,  and  a  thin,  green  wash  had 
trickled  over  the  edges  of  the  others,  staining  them. 

A  yellow  slip  of  paper  fluttered  to  the  desk. 
She  picked  it  up  and  read  the  almost  illegible, 
typewritten  lines.  It  was  a  memorandum  ad- 
dressed to  Strang,  Liebhardt  &  Co.,  and  bearing 
the  faded  signature  of  Hiram  Carmody. 

A  sudden  numbness  overcame  the  girl.  She 
sank  slowly  into  the  chair  in  front  of  the  desk 
and  stared  dully  from  the  yellowed  slip  of  paper 
to  the  faded  green  bonds. 

The  room  seemed  suddenly  cold,  and  she  stared, 
unseeing,  at  her  bloodless  finger-tips.  She  tried  to 
think — to  concentrate  her  mind  upon  the  present 
— but  her  brain  refused  to  act,  and  she  muttered 
helplessly : 

"The  bonds — the  bonds — he  took  the  bonds!" 

Like  one  in  a  dream,  she  arose  and  replenished 
the  fire  in  the  little  air-tight.  It  had  burned 
almost  to  ashes. 

She  watched  the  yellow  flames  lick  hungrily  at 
the  bubbling  pitch  of  the  knot  she  had  thrown  upon 
the  coals,  and  glanced  from  the  flaring  flames  to 
the  little  pile  of  green  papers — and  back  again 
at  the  little  flames  that  climbed  higher  about  the 
resinous  chunk. 


The  Missing  Bonds  351 


(c 


'Why  not?"  she  muttered.  "They  can  never 
prove  he  took  them,  and  he  would  think  that 
they  were  lost."  For  a  long  time  she  sat,  thinking, 
and  then  she  closed  the  stove  and  returned  to  the 
desk. 

"I  stood  by  him  when  his  father  accused  him, " 
she  murmured,  "when  I  thought  he  was  innocent. 
And  now — oh,  I  can't!  I  can't  give  him  up!" 
Her  voice  quavered  pitifully,  and  she  clutched 
at  the  hurt  in  her  throat. 

"I  can't!"  she  gasped  again.  "He  needs  me 
now.  He  is  mine!  Mine!"  she  cried  fiercely. 
"  We  will  work  it  out  together.  He  was  weak  then 
— but  now  he  is  strong.  I  will  tell  him  that  I 
know,  and  persuade  him  to  return  them.  And 
then  he  will  be  clean — brave  and  strong  and 
clean!" 

She  started  nervously  at  the  sound  of  a  fumbling 
at  the  latch.  Hastily  catching  up  the  bonds,  she 
thrust  them  into  the  bosom  of  her  gown  and 
turned  to  face  Blood  River  Jack,  who  entered, 
bearing  a  steaming  pail  of  broth  and  a  larger 
pail  covered  with  a  clean  white  cloth. 

Behind  him  Daddy  Dunnigan  noisily  stamped 
the  snow  from  his  feet.  The  old  man  hobbled  to 
the  side  of  the  bunk  and  looked  intently  into  the 
face  of  the  sleeper,  and,  stooping,  held  his  ear 
close  to  the  man's  heart. 

With  a  satisfied  nod  he  turned  to  the  girl,  who 
stood  close  by  his  side. 

"He's  shlaypin'  foine,"  he  said,  and  the  little 


352  The  Promise 

red-rimmed  eyes  looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of 
blue.  "But,  miss,  hear-rt-hunger  has  kilt  more 
good  min  thin  belly-hunger — ye'll  foind  th'  broth 
in  yon  buckut." 

He  joined  the  half-breed,  who  waited  in  silence. 
At  the  door  he  turned  and  again  addressed  the 
girl. 

"In  th'  big  buckut 's  ye're  oun  snack.  Ate  ut 
befoor  ut  gits  cowld.  Phwin  ye're  done,  wake  um 
up  an'  make  um  dhrink  some  coffee  an'  all  he  c'n 
howld  av  th'  broth.  He's  th'  bist  man  in  th' 
woods,  an'  ut's  up  to  you  to  pull  um  t'rough. " 

Before  the  girl  could  reply  the  door  closed  and 
the  two  men  were  swallowed  up  in  the  storm. 

Ethel  was  surprised  to  find  that  she  was  hungry, 
and  the  appetizing  luncheon  which  old  Daddy 
Dunnigan  had  carefully  prepared  and  packed  for 
her  was  soon  disposed  of. 

The  hands  of  the  little  alarm-clock  pointed  to 
two  as  she  crossed  and  knelt  at  the  side  of  the 
sleeping  man.  She  leaned  over  and  kissed  his 
forehead — his  lips — and  whispered  softly  into  his 
ear. 

"Bill— Bill,  dear" 

She  blushed  at  the  sound  of  the  word,  and 
glanced  hurriedly  about  the  room,  but  there  was 
no  one  to  hear,  and  the  man  slept  on  undisturbed 
by  the  tiny  whisper.  She  laid  a  hand  upon  his 
shoulder  and  shook  him  gently. 

"Bill — wake  up!"  He  stirred  slightly,  and  a 
sigh  escaped  him. 


The  Missing  Bonds  353 


is 


»» 


"Come,  wake  up,  dear,  you  must  eat. 

This  time  she  did  not  blush  at  the  word,  and 
the  shaking  became  more  vigorous.  Carmody 
moved  uneasily,  granted,  and  opened  his  eyes. 
Ethel  started  at  the  steady  gaze  of  the  grey  eyes 
so  close  to  her  own.  The  grey  eyes  closed  and  he 
passed  a  hand  slowly  across  them. 

"A  dream,"  he  muttered,  and  the  girl  leaned 
closer. 

"No,  Bill,"  she  whispered,  "it  is  not  a  dream. 
I  am  here — Ethel — don't  you  know  me?" 

"Ethel."  he  repeated,  and  the  name  seemed  to 
linger  on  his  lips.  "We  must  get  back  to  her,  kid, 
she  is  worrying — come — mush,  kid — mush!" 
The  girl  laid  a  soft  hand  on  his  forehead  and 
smoothed  back  the  tangled  hair. 

"Bill,  dear,"  she  whispered,  with  her  lips  close 
to  his,  "Charlie  is  safe.  And  you  are  safe,  here 
in  the  office — with  me." 

Bill  seemed  suddenly  to  grasp  the  situation. 

"Ethel!"  he  exclaimed.  And  then,  in  a  dull, 
tired  voice,  "I — I  brought  him  back  to  you." 
His  eyes  closed,  and  he  turned  his  face  toward  the 
wall. 

Ethel  poured  a  cup  of  coffee  from  the  pot  on 
the  stove,  and  returning,  seated  herself  upon  the 
edge  of  the  bunk.  Deftly  her  arm  slipped  under 
his  head,  and  she  held  the  cup  to  his  lips.  Bill 
drank  greedily  to  the  last  drop,  and  the  girl  filled 
another  cup  with  broth. 

This  time  he  helped  a  little,   and  she  raised 

23 


354  The  Promise 

him  higher  and  pillowed  his  head  against  he* 
breast.  He  sipped  the  broth  hungrily,  but  very 
slowly,  pausing  a  long  time  between  sips. 

Ethel's  body  thrilled  at  the  touch  of  him,  the 
little  hand  that  held  the  cup  trembled,  and  the 
man,  close-pressed  against  her  soft  breast,  heard 
the  wild  pounding  of  her  heart. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  into  her  eyes.  Her  face 
flushed  crimson,  and  the  swift  down-sweep  of  the 
long  lashes  hid  the  soft,  blue  eyes  from  the  intense, 
burning  gaze  of  the  hard  grey  ones.  In  confusion 
she  averted  her  face. 

There  was  a  swift  movement  beside  her,  and  the 
next  instant  strong  arms  were  about  her,  and  she 
heard,  as  from  afar,  the  heavy  thud  as  the  porcelain 
cup  struck  the  floor. 

Vainly  she  struggled  in  a  sudden  frenzy  of  panic 
to  free  herself  from  the  embrace  of  the  encircling 
arms,  and  her  heart  was  filled  with  a  great,  passion- 
ate gladness  at  the  futility  of  her  tiny  efforts  as 
she  felt  herself  drawn  closer  and  ever  closer 
against  the  mighty  chest  of  the  big  man  whom, 
in  spite  of  herself,  and  of  his  own  shortcomings  and 
weaknesses,  she  loved  with  the  savage  abandon 
that  is  the  wonder-love  of  woman.  She  knew,  too, 
that  the  deep  music  in  her  ears  was  the  sound  of 
his  voice  which  came  in  short,  stabbing,  half- 
sentences. 

"Ethel!  Ethel!  Little  girl — you  are  mine, 
mine,  mine!  You  do  love  me!  Darling,  better 
than  life  itself,  I  love  you.     I  have  always  loved 


The  Missing  Bonds  355 

you!    Tell  me,  dear,  it  was  all  a  lie — about  St. 
Ledger.     Tell  me  you  love  me,  dearest!" 

The  bearded  lips  found  hers,  and  for  answer, 
her  struggles  ceased,  her  body  relaxed  against  his 
body,  her  soft  arms  stole  timidly  about  his  neck, 
and  there  was  a  wild  singing  in  her  heart. 

"And  there  has  never  been  another?"  she  whis- 
pered a  few  minutes  later  as  she  sat  close  beside  him 
and  watched  him  sip  hot  broth  from  the  thick  cup. 
The  grey  eyes  twinkled. 

"Don't  you  know,  sweetheart,  that  there  has 
never  been  another?  Why,  you  have  known  me 
all  my  life!"     But  the  blue  eyes  were  serious. 

"I  mean,  since — since  you  went  away?"  For 
answer  the  man  raised  his  arm  and  pointed  toward 
the  opposite  wall. 

"Hand  me  that  mackinaw,"  he  said.  Ethel 
gasped  and  stared  at  him  wide  eyed.  "The 
mackinaw — that  old  striped  coat  next  to  the 
slicker,"  he  smiled. 

«But__ "  she  stifled  the  protest,  and  the  man 
wondered  at  the  sudden  pallor  of  her  face. 

"Hand  it  here,"  he  repeated,  "there  is  some- 
thing I  want  to  show  you. " 

Without  a  word  the  girl  crossed  the  room  and, 
removing  the  mackinaw  from  its  peg,  laid  it  upon 
the  blanket  within  reach  of  his  hand.  He  drew  it 
to  him,  and  the  girl  watched  in  silence  while  he 
ran  his  fingers  over  the  lining. 

He  plunged  his  arm  to  the  elbow  into  the  ragged 
hole  and  explored  to  the  very  corners  the  space 


356  The  Promise 

between  the  lining  and  the  cloth.  With  a  blank 
expression  of  disappointment  he  looked  up  at 
her. 

"  They  are  gone, "  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  My 
letters  and  my  picture.  Your  letters,  dear — and 
your  picture " 

"Letters!"  the  girl  gasped,  leaning  forward 
and  staring  into  his  eyes. 

"Why,  yes,  darling.  There  were  only  a  few. 
You  wrote  them  when  I  was  in  Europe.  They 
were  all  I  had — those  few  little  letters,  and  the 
photograph.     You  remember — the  one  you  gave 

it 

me 

"But — I  don't  understand " 


"I  always  kept  it  on  my  desk  at  home,"  he 
continued,  ignoring  the  interruption.  "And  your 
letters,  too — all  sealed  in  a  big  envelope.  And  the 
morning  I  went  away  I  bound  the  picture  to  the 
envelope  and  put  it  in  my  pocket,  and  I  have 
always  kept  it  with  me. 

"A  thousand  times,  dear,  I  have  looked  at  the 
picture.  It  has  been  my  fetish — the  little  amulet 
that  keeps  a  man  from  harm.  And  whether  or 
not  it  has  succeeded,  dear  heart,  you  must  judge 
for  yourself." 

"But,  the  letters — you  never  took  them  out — 
never  read  them? "  The  man  was  surprised  at  the 
intense  eagerness  of  her  tone. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "I  never  read  them.  You 
see,  it  got  to  be  a  sort  of  game  with  me.  It  was 
a  big  game  that  I  played  against  myself,  and  when 


The  Missing  Bonds  357 


i& 


I  was  sure  I  had  won  I  was  going  to  open  the 
letters." 

He  paused  and  looked  into  the  girl's  eyes. 
"And  then,  one  day  I  happened  to  read  in  an  old 
newspaper  the  account  of  your  engagement  to  St. 
Ledger.  I  almost  lost  the  game,  then — but  I 
didn't.  And — after  that — the  letters  never  were 
the  same,  and  I — I  just  played  the  game  to  win." 

There  were  tears  in  the  girl's  eyes,  and  she 
clutched  at  his  hand. 

"  But  the  bonds? "  she  cried.  The  man  regarded 
her  with  a  puzzled  look. 

"Bonds — bonds — what  bonds?" 

"Why,  the  bonds  you  were  to  have  delivered  to 
Strang,  Liebhardt  &  Co.  Securities,  or  some- 
thing." 

Bill  stared  uncomprehendingly,  then  suddenly 
he  laughed. 

"Oh!  Those!  Why,  I  handed  them  over  to 
father.  You  see,  Dad  handed  it  to  me  pretty 
straight  that  morning.  In  fact,  he — er — fired  me. 
So  I  gave  him  the  bonds  and " 

The  sentence  was  never  finished.  With  a  glad 
cry  the  girl  flung  herself  upon  him,  and  to  his 
unutterable  wonder  sobbed  and  sobbed. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

SNOW-BOUND 

Late  in  the  following  afternoon  Ethel  awoke  and 
lay  for  a  long  time  revelling  in  her  new-found 
happiness,  and  thinking  of  the  big  man  who  had 
come  once  more  into  her  life,  this  time  bringing  her 
only  gladness  and  the  joy  of  an  infinite  love. 

Her  heart  glowed  with  pride  as  she  thought  of 
the  strength  and  the  fine  courage  of  him,  and  she 
flushed  as  she  wondered  how,  even  with  the  bonds 
in  her  hands,  she  could  have  doubted  his  innocence. 
Ah,  well,  she  would  never  doubt  him  again. 

She  smiled  fondly,  but  the  smile  slowly  faded, 
for  in  her  mind  at  that  moment  was  a  doubt — a 
vague,  elusive  doubt,  that  rested  upon  the  slender 
fabric  of  a  half-breed's  fireside  tale. 

Somewhere  in  the  wild  country  was  another  girl 
— a  girl  who  was  beautiful  and  who  loved  this 
man — her  man. 

In  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  as  they  talked 
he  had  not  mentioned  this  girl,  and  Ethel  forbore 
to  question  him,  hoping  that  he  would  tell  her  of 
his  own  accord.  But  whether  or  not  he  purposely 
avoided  the  subject  she  did  not  know. 

358 


Snow-Bound  359 

She  believed  in  him — believed  in  his  great  love 
for  her,  in  his  absolute  honesty  and  the  new-found 
strength  in  him.  Yet,  hovering  like  a  specter, 
intangible,  elusive,  menacing — the  one  disturbing 
element  in  her  otherwise  perfect  happiness — was 
the  other  girl. 

Who  was  she?  What  was  she?  What  had  she 
been  to  him?  What  had  been  their  relations? 
And  why  had  she  accompanied  him  on  his  journey 
out  of  the  woods?  The  phantom  girl  took  on  a 
sinister  form  as  the  question  tantalized  her  brain. 

This  wild  woman  had  helped  to  draw  him  from 
the  river,  had  nursed  him  through  a  long  sickness. 
He  was  under  obligations  to  her,  and — was  that 
the  only  obligation  ? 

The  girl  flushed  hotly,  and  with  an  impatient 
movement  flung  the  blankets  from  her,  and 
proceeded  to  dress. 

"I  will  never,  never  ask  him,"  she  decided,  as 
she  sat  upon  the  thick  bearskin  in  front  of  the 
stove  and  drew  on  her  stockings.  "He  loves  me 
and  I  love  him. 

" If  he  tells  me  it  will  be  of  his  own  free  will;  he 
shall  not  know  that  I  ever  heard  of  this  girl. 
What  is  past,  is  past.  There  are  sealed  chapters 
in  the  lives  of  most  men — why  should  I  care? 

"He  is  mine — mine!"  she  cried  aloud,  "and  I 
love  him!" 

But  deep  down  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  she 
did  care — and  that  she  would  always  care.  And 
the  knowledge  hurt. 


360  The  Promise 

Her  toilet  completed,  the  girl  passed  into  the 
other  room,  where  Appleton  and  Sheridan  were 
engaged  in  a  lively  discussion  with  the  ladies. 

"How  is  he?"  She  addressed  her  uncle,  who 
answered  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"Bill?  Oh,  he's  all  right.  Feeling  fit  as  a 
fiddle.  Wanted  to  get  out  on  the  job,  but  I 
wouldn't  let  him.  He  was  going  anyhow,  and  the 
only  way  I  could  make  him  stay  in  was  to  threaten 
to  wake  you  up  to  give  him  his  orders  straight 
from  headquarters. " 

Ethel  blushed  furiously  as  the  smiles  of  the 
others  were  directed  toward  her.  "Yup,  he 
wouldn't  stand  for  that,"  went  on  Appleton. 
"Said  he'd  rather  He  in  bed  for  a  week  than  have 
you  puttering  around." 

With  a  disdainful  toss  of  her  head  the  girl 
seated  herself  at  the  table. 

"Now,  Hubert  Appleton,  you  stop  teasing  that 
poor  girl!"  Aunt  Margaret  rallied  in  her  defence. 
"Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him,  honey.  Bill 
is  doing  nicely,  and  we're  all  crazy  to  congratulate 
you.     We  think  he  is  just  grand!" 

Dinner  had  been  kept  piping  hot,  and  Ethel 
hid  her  confusion  behind  an  appetizing  array  of 
steaming  dishes. 

"And  what  do  you  think?"  continued  her  aunt, 
who  hovered  about  the  table  with  fussy  little 
pats  and  arrangement  of  dishes,  "we  have  to 
stay  here  all  winter!" 

"What?"  cried  the  girl  in  dismay. 


Snow-Bound  361 

"That  is  just  what  we  both  said — Mary  and  I. 
But  there  is  no  help  for  it.  The  tote-road  is  drifted 
twenty  feet  deep.  Hubert  and  Mr.  Sheridan 
are  going  to  make  the  trip  on  snowshoes;  they 
must  get  back  to  business.  The  supplies  will  have 
to  be  brought  in  on  dog-sleds,  and  wTe  have  got  to 
stay." 

"I'll  bet  Ethel  could  think  of  a  worse  predic- 
ament," grinned  Appleton.  "She'll  be  a  regular 
sourdough  before  spring;  won't  want  to  come 
out. " 

"But  I  have  nothing  to  wear!" 

"Nothing  to  wear!"  scoffed  her  uncle.  "Tell 
me,  please,  what  in  time  you  women  have  got 
packed  in  those  half  a  dozen  trunks,  then?  It's 
not  grub.  I'll  bet  there's  clothes  enough  in  these 
trunks  to  last  three  women  fourteen  years!  Still, 
if  you  really  get  cold,  you  might  ask  Bill  to  lend 
you  a  pair  of  his " 

"Hubert  Appleton!"  The  lumberman  glanced 
at  his  wife  in  surprise.  "A  pair  of  his  moccasins— 
they'll  keep  your  toes  warm." 

The  girl  finished  her  belated  dinner,  and  throw- 
ing a  coat  over  her  shoulders  stepped  out  into  the 
clear,  crisp  air.  Immediately  in  front  of  the 
building  the  wind  had  swept  the  ground  almost 
bare  of  snow,  but  Ethel  gasped  with  surprise  as 
her  eyes  sought  the  other  buildings  of  the  camp. 

The  blacksmith's  shop  was  entirely  buried 
under  a  huge  drift ;  only  one  half  of  the  cook-shack 
roof  wras  visible,  and  the  bunk-house  was  buried  to 


362  The  Promise 

the  eaves.  A  twenty-foot  drift  cut  off  the  view 
of  the  stables,  and  the  whole  crew  was  busy  digging 
paths  and  breaking  out  skidways. 

The  storm  had  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
come,  and  the  sun  shone  with  dazzling  whiteness 
upon  the  mystic,  snow-buried  world. 

In  the  office  she  found  Bill  fully  dressed,  propped 
against  his  pillows,  a  villainous  black  pipe  between 
his  lips,  reading.  He  laid  aside  his  book  and 
pipe  and  stretched  his  arms  toward  her. 

She  crossed,  blushing,  to  his  side,  and  for  a  long 
time  sat  with  her  head  resting  upon  his  shoulder, 
while  his  great  arms  held  her  close  against  his 
beating  heart. 

And  under  the  spell  of  his  presence  and  his 
gently  murmured  words  of  love,  the  disquieting 
fear  vanished,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  all  hers. 
And  she  laughed  at  her  fear,  and  drove  it  from  her 
in  the  foolish  belief  that  it  could  never  return. 

"Dear,"  she  said  later  when  their  conversation 
assumed  an  intelligible  form,  "you  must  send 
those  bonds  back  by  Uncle  Appleton.  Just 
think — your  father  thinks  you  stole  them!" 

The  man  smiled: 

"Yes,  poor  old  dad.  It  must  be  kind  of  rough 
on  him  to  think  his  son  is  a  thief.  He  was  sore 
that  morning,  and  so  was  I,  and  we  didn't  part  the 
best  of  friends.  But  I  would  rather  return  the 
bonds  myself.  Darling,  we  will  take  them  to  him, 
you  and  I,  next  summer,  when  we  go  back  to  the 
old  town." 


Snow-Bound  363 

"Go  back!"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

"Sure.  When  we  go  back  on  our  honeymoon. 
Now  that  I  have  you  I  am  never,  never  going  to 
let  3'ou  go,  and  when  next  you  see  the  big  burg, 
you  will  be  Mrs.  Bill  Carmody." 

He  kissed  the  serious  blue  eyes  that  looked  up 
into  his. 

"But,  dear,  we  are  coming  back  here?" 

"Back  here!"  he  exclaimed  in  surprise.  "You! 
Back  here !     In  the  woods ! ' ' 

The  girl  nodded. 

"I  love  the  woods;  I  will  always  love  them.  It 
was  in  the  woods  that  you  found  yourself  and  your 
place  among  men.  And  it  was  in  the  woods 
that  I  found  you — the  real  you — the  you  I  have 
always  loved!" 

"But,  dear  heart,  it  is  a  rough  life  up  here. 
It  is  new  to  you  now,  and  you  are  enchanted ;  but 
there  is  so  much  you  would  miss.  I  have  to  come 
back,  of  course — will  have  to  for  several  years  to 
come.  We  could  have  a  house  in  Minneapolis, 
and  Charlie  could  go  to  school." 

"What!  And  only  have  you  for  five  or  six 
months  in  the  year?  No,  sir!  Charlie  could 
live  with  Uncle  and  Aunt  Margaret  and  go  to 
school,  but  you  and  I  are  coming  into  the  woods. 

"Aunt  Margaret  lived  in  camps  for  years  when 
she  was  first  married,  and  they  were  as  poor  as 
church  mice.  She  told  me  all  about  it.  Of  course, 
there  is  hard  work ;  but  it  is  all  so  big,  and  grand, 
and  free,  and  there  is  lots  of  fun,  too,  and  you  will 


364  The  Promise 

have  to  teach  me  to  shoot  and  walk  on  snow= 
shoes  and  fish  through  holes  cut  in  the  ice. 

"  I  can  cook  and  sew,  and  we  will  have  a  victrola, 
and  lots  of  books  and  things — anyway,  that  is  the 
way  it  is  going  to  be,  so  there  is  no  use  arguing 
about  it."  And  the  boss  smiled  as  he  realized  what 
Appleton  meant  when  he  said:  "Orders  straight 
from  headquarters." 

The  two  lumbermen  took  their  departure  the 
following  morning  amid  the  hearty  farewells  of  the 
snow-bound  camp.  They  were  accompanied  by 
Blood  River  Jack,  who  reluctantly  agreed  to  see 
the  dog-team  tote  service  established  before  re- 
turning to  his  lodge  at  the  foot  of  the  rapid. 

"We'll  come  up  for  }*ou  in  the  spring,"  called 
Appleton,  "and  we'll  follow  the  drive  in  a  bateau. 
You  got  a  bigger  taste  of  the  old  life  than  you 
bargained  for,  little  girl,"  he  smiled  at  his  wife; 
"but  the  tote-road  is  ruined  for  this  winter  and 
you'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it. " 

"H.  D.  and  I  will  sure  think  of  you  girls  while 
we're  sitting  in  the  baldheaded  pews  at  the  Gaiety 
this  winter  gloating  over  the  grand  opera  we're 
missing!"  called  Sheridan,  rolling  his  cigar  juicily 
between  his  grinning  lips. 

"Men  of  your  age — "  began  Mrs.  Sheridan. 

"Hubert  Appleton!  If  I  hear—"  But  the 
protests  of  the  "girls"  fell  upon  deaf  ears  as  the 
men  disappeared  in  the  wake  of  the  guide,  slapping 
each  other  upon  the  back  in  high  glee. 

The  question  of  grand  opera  was  a  joke  of  long 


Snow-Bound  365 

standing  between  them,  and  up  to  the  present  had 
been  on  the  husbands,  who,  despite  their  protests, 
had  manfully  endured  their  annual  week  of  martyr- 
dom. 

"Cheer  up,  ladies,"  smiled  Bill,  "the  grapho- 
phone  is  a  very  good  one,  and  in  the  office  is  a  whole 
box  of  records  of  my  own  selection.  If  we  are 
snow-bound  we  will  not  have  to  entirely  forego 
even  grand  opera. " 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

AN  ANNOUNCEMENT 

Despite  the  handicap  of  the  deep  snow,  results 
in  the  new  camp  were  highly  satisfactory  to  Bill 
Carmody. 

Not  a  man  in  the  crew  but  swore  by  the  boss, 
and  each  day  threw  himself  into  the  work  with  a 
will  that  made  for  success.  And  each  night,  as  he 
rolled  into  his  bunk,  not  a  man  but  knew  that 
the  boss  himself  had  that  day  worked  harder  than 
he. 

"Niver  wuz  such  a  crew  in  th'  woods,  miss," 
boasted  Daddy  Dunnigan  one  afternoon  as  Ethel 
stood  in  the  door  of  the  cook-shack  and  watched 
the  old  man's  preparation  of  the  gigantic  supper. 

"Oi've  logged  a  bit,  here  an'  there,  an'  always 
Oi've  be'n  where  min  wuz — but  niver  Oi've  seed 
'em  buckle  down  an'  tear  out  th'  bone,  wan  day 
wid  another,  save  in  th'  so'gerin'  days  av  Captain 
Fronte  McKim. 

"Th'  same  wuz  th'  boss's  uncle,  an'  he's  a  Mc- 
Kim fr'  th'  sole  av  his  feet  to  th'  peak  av  his  head, 
barrin'  th'  licker,  an'  th'  min'll  go  t'rough  hell  an' 
hoigh  wather  fer  um,  beggin'  ye're  pardon — an' 

366 


An  Announcement  367 

he  ain't  no  dommed  angel,  nayther,  beggin'  ut 
ag'in,  miss. 

"Ye  sh'd  see  th'  hand  av  poker  he  plays,  an' 
th'  beautiful  swearin'  av  um,  phwin  things  goes 
wrong!  An'  ye  sh'd  see  um  foight  wanst!  An' 
now  he's  gone  an'  poshted  a  foive  per  cint  bonus 
av  they  bate  Moncrossen's  cut,  an'  uts  loike  handin' 
ut  to  'em,  'cause  he  knows  th'  b'ys  is  already 
doin'  their  dommedest,  beggin'  ye're  pardon,  miss. 

"Oi'll  bet  me  winther's  wages,  come  shpr-ring, 
we'll  have  Moncrossen  shnowed  undher  dayper 
thin'  yon  smithy,  an'  they  had  to  tunnel  to  foind 
ut." 

The  girl  laughed  happily  and  passed  on  with  a 
great  love  in  her  heart  for  Daddy  Eunnigan  and 
the  big,  rough  men  out  in  the  timber  who  were 
"tearing  out  the  bone"  that  her  man  might  make 
good. 

Day  by  day  the  black  pyramids  of  the  rollways 
lengthened,  and  the  skidways  were  pushed  farther 
and  farther  into  the  timber.  And,  of  all  the  men 
in  the  crew,  none  worked  harder  nor  to  better 
purpose  than  Stromberg,  the  big  hulking  Swede, 
whom  Fallon  had  warned  Bill  was  the  brains  of 
Moncrossen's  bird's-eye  gang. 

Neither  Bill  nor  the  big  swamper  had  ever 
alluded  to  that  affair  in  the  bunk-house  upon  the 
night  of  their  first  meeting,  and  it  was  with  a 
feeling  of  surprise  that  the  foreman  looked  up  one 
evening  as  he  sat  alone  in  the  little  office  to  see 
Stromberg  enter  and  cross  to  his  side. 


368  The  Promise 

The  man  lost  no  time  in  coming  to  the  point. 

"Bill,"  he  began,  "I  went  up  with  Buck  Mon- 
crossen  this  summer  to  bring  down  the  bird's-eye. 
We  found  a  pile  of  ashes  where  the  logs  should 
have  been.  Moncrossen  thinks  Creed  burned 
them — or  let  someone  do  it. 

"  It  was  a  crooked  game,  and  I  was  in  it  as  deep 
as  any  one.  I  ain't  trying  to  beg  off — but,  I'd 
rather  be  square  than  crooked — and  that's  the 
truth.  I  ain't  spent  most  of  my  life  in  the 
woods  not  to  be  able  to  tell  hardwood  ashes  from 
soft-wood,  and  I  know  you  slipped  one  over 
on  us. 

"You're  going  to  make  good  in  the  woods. 
You'll  be  the  big  boss,  some  day.  I  expect  to  do 
time  for  my  part  in  the  bird's-eye  game,  and  I'll 
take  all  that's  coming  to  me.  And  I  won't  snitch 
on  the  rest  to  get  a  lighter  sentence,  either. 

"I  know  Appleton,  and  I  know  we'll  get  ours 
in  the  spring,  but  what  I  want  to  know  is :  when  I 
get  out,  can  I  come  to  you  for  a  job?" 

Bill  rose  from  his  chair  and  thrust  a  big  hand 
toward  the  other. 

" Stromberg, "  he  said,  "you  are  no  more  a  crook 
than  I  am.  You  threw  in  with  a  bad  bunch — 
that's  all.  Suppose  we  just  forget  the  bird's-eye 
business.  You  and  Fallon  are  the  two  best  men 
I've  got. 

"We  are  going  to  beat  Moncrossen  this  year, 
and  every  man  in  the  crew  has  got  to  help  do  it — 
and  next  winter — well,  Mr.  Appleton  will  have  an 


An  Announcement  369 

eye  peeled  for  a  man  to  take  Moncrossen's  job — 
see?" 

The  two  big  men  shook  hands,  and  as  he  made 
his  way  to  the  bunk -house,  Stromberg  wondered 
at  the  peculiar  smile  on  the  boss's  lips  as  he  said : 

"There  are  a  hell  of  a  lot  of  good  men  wasted 
because  of  a  bad  start.     So-long." 

The  weeks  slipped  rapidly  by.  The  weather 
settled,  keen  and  cold,  with  the  crew  keyed  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  efficiency. 

"Beat  Buck  Moncrossen ! "  became  the  slogan 
of  the  camp,  and  with  the  lengthening  days  it 
became  apparent  that  a  record  cut  was  being 
banked  on  the  railways. 

It  was  a  wonderful  winter  for  Ethel  Manton. 
The  spirit  of  the  big  country  entered  her  blood. 
More  and  more  she  loved  the  woods,  and  learned 
to  respect  and  admire  the  rough  loyalty  of  the 
big  men  of  the  logs. 

She  had  come  to  call  most  of  them  by  name, 
as  with  a  smile  and  a  nod,  or  a  wave  of  the  hand, 
she  passed  them  in  the  timber  on  her  daily  excur- 
sions in  search  of  rabbits  and  ptarmigan.  And  not 
a  man  in  the  crew  but  would  gladly  have  fought  to 
the  last  breath  for  "the  boss's  girl." 

And  now  the  feel  of  spring  was  in  the  air.  Each 
day  the  sun  climbed  higher  and  higher,  and  the 
wind  lost  its  sting.  The  surface  of  the  snow 
softened  by  day,  and  high-piled  white  drifts 
settled  slowly  into  soggy  masses  of  saturated,  gray 
slush. 
24 


370  The  Promise 

Bill  figured  that  he  had  nearly  fifteen  million 
feet  down  when  he  called  off  his  sawyers  and 
ordered  the  clean-up.  The  nights  remained  cold, 
freezing  the  surface  of  the  sodden  snow  into  a 
crust  of  excellent  footing,  so  that  the  day's  work 
began  at  midnight  and  continued  until  the  crust 
softened  under  the  rays  of  the  morning  sun. 

The  men  laughed  and  sang  and  talked  of  the 
drive,  and  of  the  waterfront  dives  of  cities,  whose 
calk-pocked  floors  spoke  the  shame  of  the  men  of 
the  logs. 

But  most  of  all  they  talked  of  the  wedding. 
For  as  they  sat  at  the  supper-table  on  the  day 
the  last  tree  fell,  the  boss  entered,  accompanied 
by  the  girl. 

In  a  few  brief  words  he  told  them  that  he  was 
proud  of  every  man  jack  of  them;  that  they  were 
the  best  crew  that  ever  came  into  the  woods,  and 
that  they  had  more  than  earned  the  bonus. 

He  told  them  that  he  realized  he  was  a  greener, 
and  thanked  them  for  their  loyalty  and  coopera- 
tion, without  which  his  first  season  as  camp  fore- 
man must  have  been  doomed  to  failure. 

Cheer  after  cheer  interrupted  his  words,  and 
when  he  took  Ethel  by  the  hand  and  announced 
that  they  were  soon  to  be  married  in  that  very 
room  and  invited  all  hands  to  the  wedding,  their 
cheers  drowned  his  voice  completely. 

But  when  the  girl  tried  to  speak  to  them,  choked 
in  confusion,  and  with  her  eyes  brimming  with 
tears,  extended  both  hands  and  gasped:  "Oh,  I — I 


An  Announcement  371 

love  you  all!"  the  wild  storm  of  applause  threat- 
ened to  tear  the  roof  from  the  log  walls. 

It  was  Ethel's  idea  that  they  should  be  married 
in  the  woods.  Her  love  for  the  wild  country  grew 
deeper  with  the  passing  days.  She  loved  it  all — 
the  silent  snow-bound  forest,  the  virile  life  of  the 
big  camp  with  its  moments  of  tense  excitement,  the 
mighty  crash  with  which  tall  trees  tore  through 
the  branches  of  lesser  trees  to  measure  their  length 
on  the  scarred  snow,  the  thrill  of  hunting  wild 
things,  and  the  long  evenings  when  the  rich  tones  of 
the  graphophone  fell  upon  her  ears  amid  rough  sur- 
roundings, like  a  voice  from  the  past. 

But  most  of  all  she  loved  the  long  walks  in  the 
forest,  in  the  deep  gloom  of  moonlit  nights  with 
the  weird,  mysterious  shadows  all  about  them  as 
the  big  man  at  her  side  told  her  of  his  great  love 
while  they  planned  and  dreamed  of  the  future; 
and  then  returned  to  the  little  office  where  she 
listened  while  he  read  aloud,  pausing  now  and 
then  to  light  his  black  pipe  and  blow  clouds  of  blue 
smoke  toward  the  low  ceiling. 

He  had  grown  very  close  to  her,  and  very  dear, 
this  big,  impetuous  boy,  who  had  suddenly  become 
a  masterful  man,  and  in  whom  she  found  each  day 
some  new  depth  of  feeling — some  entirely  unsus- 
pected and  unexplored  nook  of  his  character. 

Her  doubts  and  fears  had  long  since  been  thrust 
aside,  and  even  the  existence  of  the  Indian  girl  had 
been  forgotten.  And  so  it  was  that  when  Ethel 
told  Bill  one  evening  she  wished  their  wedding  to 


S72  The  Promise 

take  place  in  the  camp,  amid  the  scenes  of  their 
'future  hardships  and  happiness,  he  acquiesced 
gladly,  and  to  the  laughing  outrage  of  her  dignity- 
picked  her  up  in  his  two  hands  and  tossed  her  high 
in  the  air  as  he  would  have  tossed  a  baby. 

And  now  the  time  of  the  wedding  was  very  near. 
The  clean-up  was  finished,  and  day  by  day  they 
awaited  the  coming  of  Appletcn  and  Sheridan,  and 
of  Father  Lapre,  of  the  Rice  Lake  Mission. 

The  men  of  the  crew  set  about  to  make  the 
event  one  long  to  be  remembered  in  the  Northland. 
Flowers  were  unobtainable,  but  a  frame  in  the  form 
of  a  giant  horseshoe  was  constructed  and  covered 
over  with  pine-cones. 

A  raid  was  made  upon  the  oat-bin,  and  the  oats 
sifted  between  the  scales  of  the  cones  and  moist- 
ened. The  structure  was  placed  near  the  stove 
in  the  bunk-house,  and  when  the  tiny,  green  shoots 
began  to  appear,  woe  to  him  who  procrastinated 
in  the  closing  of  the  door  or  neglected  to  tend  fire 
when  it  was  his  turn ! 

The  walls  of  the  grub-shack  were  completely 
hidden  behind  pine-branches,  and  festoons  of  bril- 
liant red  bakneesh  encircled  the  room  and  depended 
from  the  chains  of  the  big,  swinging  lamps. 

In  the  bunk-house  the  men  busied  themselves  in 
the  polishing  of  buck-horns  for  the  fashioning  of  a 
wonderful  chair  in  whose  make-up  would  be  found 
neither  nails  nor  glue,  its  parts  being  bound  to- 
gether by  means  of  sinews  and  untanned  buckskin 
thongs. 


An  Announcement  373 

The  bateaux  were  set  up  and  waiting  at  the  head 
of  the  rollways.  The  snow  of  the  forest  slumped 
lower  and  lower,  and  innumerable  icy  rills  found 
their  way  to  the  river  over  the  surface  of  whose 
darkened,  honeycombed  ice  flowed  a  shallow, 
slushy  stream. 

Father  Lapre  arrived  one  morning,  pink,  smil- 
ing, and  wet  to  the  middle,  having  blundered  onto 
thin  ice  in  the  darkness.  The  following  morning 
Sheridan  and  Appleton  appeared  with  mysteri- 
ously bulging  packs,  and  weary  from  their  three 
nights'  battle  with  the  slippery,  ice-crusted  tote- 
road. 


CHAPTER   XLVII 

MONCROSSEN  PAYS  A  VISIT 

In  the  filthy  office  of  the  camp  on  the  Lower 
Blood  River,  Buck  Moncrossen  sat  at  his  desk  and 
glowered  over  his  report  sheets.  The  ill-trimmed 
lamp  smoked  luridly,  and  the  light  that  filtered 
through  its  blackened  chimney  illumined  dimly 
the  interior  of  the  little  room. 

The  man  pawed  over  his  papers  with  bearlike 
clumsiness,  pausing  now  and  then  to  wet  a  be- 
grimed thumb  and  to  curse  his  luck,  his  crew,  his 
employer,  and  any  and  everything  that  had  to  do 
with  logs  and  logging. 

It  had  been  a  bad  season  for  Buck  Moncrossen. 
The  spring  break-up  was  at  hand,  and  the  best  he 
could  figure  was  a  scant  nine  million  feet,  where 
Appleton  had  expected  the  heavy  end  of  a  twenty- 
five-million-foot  cut. 

Many  of  his  best  men  had  gone  to  the  new  camp 
to  work,  as  they  supposed,  under  Fallon.  The 
previous  winter's  bird's-eye  cut  was  lost;  Creed 
was  gone;  Stromberg  was  gone,  and  he  trusted 
none  of  his  men  sufficiently  to  continue  the  game. 
The  boss  rose  with  a  growl,  and  spat  copiously  in 
the  direction  of  the  stove. 

374 


Moncrossen  Pays  a  Visit         375 

11  Damn  Appleton !  And  damn  the  crew!  Nine 
million  feet !  At  that,  though,  I  bet  I've  laid  down 
half  agin  as  much  as  the  new  camp.  Fallen  never 
run  a  crew,  an'  he  had  his  camp  to  build  to  boot." 

He  resumed  his  seat,  and  reaching  to  the  top  of 
the  desk  drew  down  a  quart  bottle,  from  which  he 
drank  in  long,  deep  gurgles.  He  stared  a  long 
time  at  the  bottle,  drank  again,  and  stooping, 
began  to  unlace  his  boots. 

"I'll  start  the  clean-up  in  the  mornin',  an'  then 
I'll  find  time  to  pay  a  little  visit  I  be'n  aimin'  to 
pay  all  winter.  Creed  said  she  was  somewheres 
below  the  foot  of  the  rapids.  It's  anyways  ten 
days  to  the  break-up;  an'  I  ain't  worryin'  a  damn 
if  I  do  happen  to  foul  Fallon's  drive. " 

Jacques  Lacombie  had  so  arranged  his  trap-lines 
that  on  his  longest  circle  he  should  be  absent 
only  one  night  from  the  lodge  where  old  Wa-ha-ta- 
na-ta  kept  an  ever- vigilant  eye  upon  the  comings 
and  goings  of  Jeanne. 

Since  his  return  after  the  great  blizzard  the  half- 
breed  had  made  numerous  trips  to  the  camp  of 
Moncrossen,  carrying  fresh  venison,  and  he  did  not 
like  the  shifting  glances  the  boss  bent  toward  him, 
nor  the  leering  smile  with  which  he  inquired  after 
Jeanne. 

As  the  freezing  nights  hardened  the  crust  upon 
the  surface  of  the  sodden  snow,  Jacques  discarded 
his  rackets  and,  spending  his  days  in  the  lodge, 
attended  his  traps  at  night  by  the  light  of  a  lantern. 

Daylight  found  him  one  morning  headed  home- 


376  The  Promise 

ward  on  a  course  paralleling  the  river  and  nearly 
opposite  Moncrossen's  camp.  Steadily  he  plodded 
onward,  and  a  smile  came  to  his  lips  as  he  formu- 
lated his  plans  for  the  summer,  which  included 
the  removal  of  Jeanne  from  her  dangerous  prox- 
imity to  Moncrossen. 

He  would  change  his  hunting-ground,  move  his 
lodge  up  the  river,  and  next  season  he  would 
supply  the  camp  of  M's'u'  Bill,  whose  heart  was 
good,  and  who  would  see  that  no  harm  came  to 
the  girl. 

He  swung  onto  the  marshy  arm  of  a  small  lake, 
whose  surface  was  profusely  dotted  with  conical 
muskrat  houses  which  reared  their  brown  domes 
above  the  broken  rice-straw  and  cattail  stalks. 

He  had  nearly  reached  the  center  when  sud- 
denly he  halted,  whirled  half  around,  and  clutched 
frantically  at  the  breast  of  his  shirt.  It  was  as 
though  some  unseen  hand  had  dealt  him  a  sh£:rp 
blow,  and  a  dull,  scorching  pain  shot  through  his 
chest. 

He  drew  away  his  hand,  red  and  dripping, 
glanced  wildly  about,  staggered  a  few  steps,  and 
crashed  headlong,  with  a  rustling  sound,  into  the 
thick  growth  of  dry  cattail  stalks. 
■  On  the  bank  of  the  marsh  a  thin  puff  of  vapory 
smoke  drifted  across  the  face  of  a  blackened 
stump  and  dissolved  in  the  crisp  air,  and  the  sharp 
crack  of  a  high-power  rifle  of  small  caliber  raised 
scarcely  an  echo  against  the  wall  of  the  opposite 
shore. 


Moncrossen  Pays  a  Visit         377 

A  man  stepped  from  behind  the  stump,  glanced 
sharply  about  him,  and  grinned  as  he  leisurely 
pumped  another  cartridge  into  the  chamber. 

He  bit  the  corner  from  a  thick  plug  of  tobacco, 
and  gazed  out  over  the  marsh,  which  showed 
only  the  light  yellow  of  the  dry  stalks  and  the 
brown  domes  of  the  rat-houses. 

"That  ain't  so  bad  fer  two  hundred  yards — 
plugged  him  square  in  the  middle,  too.  God! 
I'd  hate  to  die!"  he  muttered,  and,  turning,  fol- 
lowed the  shore  of  the  lake  and  struck  into  the 
timber  in  the  direction  in  which  the  other  had  been 
going. 

An  hour  later  he  slipped  silently  behind  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  at  the  edge  of  a  tiny  clearing  in  the 
center  of  which  stood  a  single,  smoke-blackened 
tepee. 

The  blue  smoke  from  a  small  fire  in  front  of  the 
opening  floated  lazily  upward  in  the  still  air,  and 
beside  the  blaze  a  leathern-faced  crone  squatted 
and  stirred  the  contents  of  a  black  pot  which 
simmered  from  a  cross-piece  supported  at  the  ends 
by  crotched  sticks  driven  into  the  ground. 

The  old  squaw  fitted  the  lid  to  the  pot,  hung  the 
long-handled  spoon  upon  a  projection  of  a  forked 
upright,  and,  picking  up  a  tin  pail,  disappeared 
down  the  well-worn  path  to  the  river.  With  an 
evil  leer  the  man  stepped  boldly  into  the  clearing 
and  crossed  to  the  opening  of  the  tepee. 

Stooping,  he  suddenly  looked  within,  where 
Jeanne   Lacombie   knelt   upon  one   knee  as   she 


3/S  The  Promise 

fastened  the  thongs  of  her  moccasin.  The  man 
grinned  as  he  recognized  the  silvery  hairs  of  the 
great  white  wolf  skin  which  the  girl  had  thrown 
across  her  shoulders. 

"So  you  swiped  the  greener's  wolf -hide,  did 
you?  I  seen  it  was  gone  offen  the  end  of  the 
bunk-house." 

At  the  sound  the  girl  looked  up,  and  the  blood 
froze  in  her  veins  at  the  sight  of  the  glittering 
eyes  and  sneering  lips  of  Moncrossen.  He  spoke 
again : 

"You  thought  I  was  done  with  you,  did  you? 
Thought  I'd  forgot  you,  an'  the  fight  the  old  she- 
tiger  put  up  that  night  on  Broken  Knee?  But 
that  was  in  the  dark,  or  there'd  been  a  different 
story  to  tell." 

The  words  came  in  a  horrible  nasal  snarl,  and 
the  little  eyes  glowed  lustfully  as  they  drank  in  the 
rich  curves  of  the  girl  who  had  sprung  to  her  feet, 
her  muscles  tense  with  terror. 

11  Come  along,  now — an'  come  peaceable.  You're 
my  woman  now.  I'm  willin'  to  let  bygones  be 
bygones,  an'  I'll  treat  you  right  long  as  you  don't 
try  none  of  your  tricks.  You'll  learn  who's  boss, 
an'  as  long  as  you  stay  by  me  you'll  get  plenty  to 
eat  an'  white  folks  clothes  to  wear — that's  a  heap 
better'n  livin'  like  a  damned  Injun — you'll  soon 
fergit  all  this." 

His  promises  terrified  the  girl  even  more  than 
the  angry  snarl,  and  with  a  loud  cry  she  tried  to 
spring  past  him,  but  his  arms  closed  about  her  and 


Moncrossen  Pays  a  Visit         379 

he  laughed  a  hard,  brutal  laugh  of  contempt  for  her 
puny  struggles. 

A  shadow  fell  upon  them,  and  the  man  whirled, 
dodging  quickly  as  the  sharp  bit  of  an  axe  grazed 
his  shoulder  and  tore  through  the  wall  of  the 
tepee.  He  released  the  girl  and  lunged  toward  the 
old  squaw,  who  was  reaching  for  the  pot  with  its 
scalding  contents. 

Seizing  her  by  the  arm,  he  threw  her  heavily  to 
the  ground,  where  she  lay  while  the  girl  fled  to 
the  edge  of  the  clearing  and  paused,  for  she  knew 
that  in  the  forest  she  could  easily  elude  the  heavy- 
footed  lumber  boss.  Moncrossen,  too,  realized 
that  pursuit  would  be  useless,  and  in  his  rage  lev- 
eled  his  rifle  at  the  figure  upon  the  ground. 

"Come  back  here!"  he  cried.  "Come  back,  or 
by  God  I'll  plug  her  like  I  plugged — "  He 
stopped  abruptly  and  glanced  along  the  sights. 

The  girl  hesitated,  and  the  voice  of  Wa-ha-ta- 
na-ta  fell  sharply  upon  her  ear : 

"No!  No!  Do  not  come!  He  will  not  shoot ! 
Even  now  his  finger  flutters  upon  the  trigger !  He 
is  afraid  to  shoot!"  And  she  glared  defiantly 
into  the  glittering  eyes  that  squinted  above  the 
gun-barrel.  Slowly  the  muzzle  lowered  and  the 
man  laughed — a  hard,  dry  laugh. 

"You're  right!"  he  sneered.  "I  won't  shoot. 
But  if  she  don't  come  back  you'll  wish  to  God 
I  had  shot!" 

He  turned  to  the  girl:  "I  ain't  goin*  to  chase 
you.     I'm   goin'   to   stand   pat.     When  you  git 


380  The  Promise 

ready  you  c'n  come  to  me — up  to  the  camp. 
Meanwhile  I'll  put  the  old  hag  where  the  dogs 
won't  bite  her,  an'  while  you  stay  away  she  don't 
eat — see?  She  ain't  nothin'  but  a  rack  o'  bones 
nohow,  an'  a  few  days  '11  fix  her  clock. " 

"Go  find  Jacques!"  cried  the  old  woman,  fum- 
bling at  her  blanket. 

The  man  laughed.  "Sure,  go  find  him!"  he 
taunted. 

A  skinny  hand  was  withdrawn  from  the  blanket 
and  the  clawlike  fingers  clutched  a  fragment  of 
broken  knife-blade.  She  held  it  before  the  man 
and  the  shrunken  lips  mumbled  unintelligible 
words;  then,  with  a  swift  movement,  she  flung  it 
from  her  and  it  rang  upon  the  ice  at  the  feet  of 
the  girl,  who  stooped  swiftly  and  seized  it. 

"Go!"  cried  the  old  woman.  "Far  up  the 
river  to  the  camp  of  the  One-Good-White-Man!" 

Again  Moncrossen  laughed  harshly. 

"You  can't  work  none  of  your  damned  charms 
on  me!"  he  sneered.  "G'wan  up  the  river. 
There  ain't  no  one  up  there  but  Fallen's  camp,  an' 
you  might  better  stick  with  me.  Only  don't 
stay  too  long.  This  here  old  leather  image  can't 
live  without  eatin',  an'  when  you  come  we'll  have 
heap  big  potlatch." 

The  wigwam  of  old  Wabishke,  the  Indian 
trapper,  was  pitched  in  a  dense  thicket  on  the 
shore  of  the  little  muskrat  lake.  In  the  early 
gray  of  the  morning  the  old  Indian  was  startled 
by  the  sound  of  a  shot. 


Moncrossen  Pays  a  Visit        381 

He  peered  cautiously  through  the  branches 
and  saw  a  man  pitch  forward  among  the  rice- 
stalks.  Five  minutes  later  another  man  carrying  a 
rifle  passed  within  a  hundred  feet  of  him  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  timber  in  the  direction  of  Blood 
River  Rapids.  Y/hen  he  was  gone  Wabishke 
ran  swiftly  to  the  fallen  man  and  conveyed  him  to 
the  wigwam,  where  he  plugged  the  bullet-hole  with 
fat  and  bound  up  the  wound. 

Two  hours  later  the  bushes  parted  and  Jeanne 
Lacombie  burst  panting  into  the  wigwam.  The 
girl  uttered  a  wild  cry  at  the  sight  of  her  brother 
lying  motionless  upon  the  robe  and  dropped  to  her 
knees  at  his  side. 

"  Moncrossen, "  grunted  the  Indian,  and  watched 
in  silent  wonder  as  the  girl  leaped  to  her  feet 
and,  seizing  an  empty  pack-sack,  began  stuffing 
it  with  food.  Snatching  a  light  blanket  from 
the  floor,  she  swung  the  pack  to  her  shoulders  and 
without  a  word  dashed  again  into  the  forest. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 

THE  WEDDING 

The  events  incident  to  the  wedding  of  Bill 
Carmody  and  Ethel  Manton  are  indelibly  stamped 
upon  the  memory  of  every  person  present.  The 
day  was  warmer  than  any  preceding  one,  with  a 
lowering,  overcast  sky.  The  dark,  soggy  snow 
melted  rapidly,  and  the  swollen  surface  stream 
gnawed  and  tore  at  the  honeycombed  ice  of  the 
river. 

In  the  cook-shack  Daddy  Dunnigan  superin- 
tended the  labors  of  half  a  dozen  flunkies  in  the 
preparation  of  the  Gargantuan  wedding  feast 
which  was  to  follow  the  ceremony,  and  each  man 
of  the  crew  worked  feverishly  in  the  staging  of  the 
great  event. 

The  table,  which  extended  the  full  length  of  the 
grub-shack,  was  scrubbed  until  it  shone  and  was 
moved  to  one  side  to  make  room  for  the  heavy 
benches  arranged  transversely,  one  behind  the 
other. 

The  wide  aisle  between  the  table  and  the  ends 
of  the  benches,  leading  from  the  door  to  the  im- 
provised altar  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  was 

382 


The  Wedding  383 

carpeted  with  blankets  from  the  bunk-house,  and 
suspended  from  the  ceiling  immediately  in  front  of 
the  altar  swung  the  massive  horseshoe,  fresh  and 
green  with  sprouting  grain. 

During  the  afternoon  a  warm  drizzle  set  in  and 
the  men  completed  the  preparations  amid  a  mut- 
tered cursing  of  the  weather. 

An  ominous  booming  and  cracking  now  and 
then  reached  their  ears  from  the  direction  of  the 
river  where  the  sullen,  pent-up  waters  threatened 
momentarily  to  break  their  ice  bonds,  and  the  men 
knew  that  the  logs  must  go  out  on  the  flood  though 
the  heavens  fell. 

The  drizzle  continued,  the  gray  daylight  wore 
into  darkness,  and  with  the  darkness  came  the 
return  of  good  cheer.  For  rollways  must  be 
broken  out  in  the  light  of  day,  and  the  air  rang 
with  loud  laughter  and  the  rhythmic  swing  of 
roaring  chanteys,  as  the  men  realized  that  they 
were  not  to  be  robbed  of  their  gala  day  with  its 
long  night  of  feasting. 

The  phonograph,  with  its  high-piled  box  of 
records,  occupied  a  conspicuous  place  upon  the 
dais,  and  upon  the  long  table  was  displayed  an 
enormous  collection  of  gifts,  chief  among  which 
was  the  ingeniously  constructed  chair  with  its 
broad  back  of  flaring  moose  antlers. 

At  seven-thirty  the  men  filed  in  from  the  bunk- 
house  and  found  places  upon  the  benches  where 
they  sat  awkwardly,  conversing  in  loud  whispers. 

Father  Lapre,  book  in  hand,  took  his  place 


384  The  Promise 

at  the  altar,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Bill  Carmody 
entered  with  Sheridan  and  strode  rapidly  up  the 
aisle.  At  the  sight  cf  the  boss  the  crew  rose  as 
one  man  and  the  room  rang  with  a  loud,  spontane- 
ous cheer. 

The  little  priest  held  up  his  hand  for  silence. 
At  a  signal  someone  started  the  graphophone, 
and  to  the  sweet  strains  of  a  march  the  bride 
appeared,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  her  uncle. 

Slowly,  with  bowed  head,  in  the  midst  of  a 
strained  silence,  she  traversed  the  length  of  the 
long  room,  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes.  When  almost 
at  the  altar  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  man  who 
awaited  her  there. 

Her  quick,  indrawn  breath  was  almost  a  gasp, 
and  Appleton  felt  her  arm  tremble  upon  his. 

He  stood  waiting  for  her — this  man  into  whose 
keeping  she  was  giving  her  life — exactly  as  she 
had  seen  him  at  the  time  of  their  first  meeting  in 
the  North  country  when  he  stood,  big  and  bearded, 
in  the  gathering  dusk,  framed  in  the  doorway  of 
the  little  office. 

In  one  swift  glance  she  saw  that  every  detail 
was  the  same,  from  the  high-laced  boots  to  the 
embroidered  hunting-shirt  open  at  the  throat — only 
his  eyes  were  different — there  was  no  pain,  now, 
in  the  gray  eyes  that  blazed  eagerly  into  her  own 
— only  happiness,  and  the  burning  passion  of  love. 

And  then  her  uncle  retired,  and  she  stood  alone 
with  the  man,  facing  the  priest.  She  could  hear 
the  voice  of  the  little  pink  priest  and  of  the  big 


The  Wedding  385 

man  at  her  side,  and  as  in  a  dream  she  found  her- 
self repeating  the  words  of  the  ritual. 

She  knew  that  a  ring  was  being  placed  upon  her 
ringer,  and  she  was  a  wife.  And  that  the  priest,  in 
solemn  voice,  with  outstretched  hands,  was  extend- 
ing them  his  blessing. 

The  voice  hesitated — stopped. 

In  the  rear  of  the  room  the  door  was  thrown 
violently  open  and  banged  loudly  against  the  log 
wall.  There  was  a  confused  scuffling  of  feet  and  a 
scraping  of  heavy  benches  as  the  men  craned 
their  necks  toward  the  entrance. 

Involuntarily  Ethel  turned,  and  there,  gliding 
swiftly  toward  her  up  the  blanket-carpeted  aisle, 
was  the  most  picturesquely  beautiful  woman  she 
had  ever  seen. 

Wide-eyed  she  stared  at  the  newcomer.  Her 
face  went  deathly  white,  and  the  heart  within  her 
breast  turned  to  ice,  for  instinctively  she  knew, 
by  the  wild,  intense  beauty  of  the  woman,  that  she 
stood  face  to  face  with  the  Indian  girl — the  Jeanne 
of  Bill  Carmody's  whispered  words ! 

Her  brain  took  in  the  details  with  incredible 
rapidity;  and  the  girl  was  still  coming  toward  her 
as  she  noted  the  dazzling  brightness  of  the  great 
silvery  wolf-skin  that  was  flung  about  her  shoulders 
and  caught  together  at  her  soft  throat ;  the  mass  of 
black  hair,  upon  which  the  mist-beads  sparkled 
like  a  million  diamonds;  the  dark,  liquid  eyes,  and 
the  even,  white  teeth  that  glistened  between  the 
curving  red  lips. 

as 


386  The  Promise 

The  girl  was  at  her  side  now,  and  with  a  low  cry 
threw  herself  upon  her  knees  before  the  man, 
and  stretched  her  arms  toward  him  gropingly. 

"  M's'u'  Bill!"  she  cried,  and  the  voice  was  sweet 
and  soft;  the  words  uttered  with  imploring  inten- 
sity. And  then  in  Ethel's  ears  was  the  voice  of  her 
husband. 

"Jeanne,  Jeanne,"  he  said;  "why  have  you 
come?     Speak,  girl;  why  have  you  come  to  me?" 

At  the  sound  of  the  name,  the  thought  that  at  the 
very  altar  this  woman's  name  was  upon  the  lips  of 
her  husband,  the  hot  blood  surged  to  her  face  and 
the  tiny  fists  clenched.  She  was  about  to  speak, 
but  was  forestalled  by  the  half-breed  girl  who  had 
leaped  to  her  feet  and  thrown  her  arms  about  Bill's 
neck  and  was  speaking  in  short,  stabbing  words: 

"Come!  Come  now — with  me!  Oh,  do  not 
wait!     Come — even  now  it  may  be  too  late!" 

The  low  voice  quivered  with  excitement,  and 
the  man's  hand  patted  her  shoulder  soothingly  as 
he  endeavored  to  quiet  her.  Ethel  took  a  quick 
step  forward,  and  the  hard  tone  of  her  voice  cut 
upon  the  air  like  the  ring  of  tempered  steel. 

1 '  Who  are  you  ? ' '  she  cried.  ' '  Speak !  What  is 
this  man  to  you?" 

The  Indian  girl  turned  and  faced  her,  seeming 
for  the  first  time  aware  of  her  presence.  The 
dark,  liquid  eyes  flashed  as  she  drew  herself  to  her 
full  height. 

"To  me,  he  is  everything!  I  would  die  for  him! 
/  love  him!" 


The  Wedding  387 

The  tense  tones  rang  through  the  long  room 
where  a  hundred  and  fifty  big  men  sat  silent — 
hypnotized  by  the  intense  drama  of  the  scene. 

With  a  lithe,  swift  movement  the  half-breed  girl 
raised  her  hands  to  her  bosom  and  tore  at  the 
fastenings  of  her  hunting-shirt.  There  was  the 
sound  of  popping  buttons,  the  heavily  embroid- 
ered shirt  flew  open,  and  there,  gleaming  cold  and 
gray  in  the  lamplight,  upon  the  warm  ivory  of  her 
bared  breast  lay  a  naked  blade — the  broken  blade 
of  a  sheath  knife! 

She  broke  the  cord  that  held  it  suspended  about 
her  neck  and  extended  the  blade  toward  the  man, 
uttering  but  a  single  word : 

"Come!" 

And  as  Bill's  eyes  fell  upon  the  bit  of  metal  his 
form  stiffened  and  his  fists  clenched. 

"I  will  come — lead  on!"  he  answered  For 
in  his  mind  rang  the  words  of  his  solemn  promise : 
"No  people  of  the  earth,  and  nothing  that  is  upon 
the  earth,  nor  of  the  earth,  shall  prevent  me — and 
one  day  you  will  know  that  my  words  are  true." 

The  half-breed  girl  had  already  turned  away 
when  the  man's  eyes  sought  the  eyes  of  his  wife. 
She  was  regarding  him  with  a  strange,  frightened 
stare.  Her  face  had  turned  marble  white  at  his 
words,  and  she  gasped  uncertainly  for  breath. 

Her  pallor  alarmed  Bill,  who  stepped  toward  her 
with  outstretched  arms;  but  she  shrank  from  his 
touch  and  her  blue  eyes  fixed  him  with  their  cold, 
frightened  stare. 


388  The  Promise 

"Ethel!"  he  cried.  "Darling— my  wife!  J 
must  go!  It  is  The  Promise!"  Unconsciously  he 
repeated  the  words  of  the  old  squaw.  "  Wa-ha-ta- 
na-ta,  in  the  last  extremity  of  her  need,  is  calling — 
and  I  must  go  to  her. 

"Oh,  can't  you  see?"  he  cried  suddenly,  as  the 
look  of  horror  deepened  upon  the  face  of  his  wife. 
"Darling — only  long  enough  to  give  her  aid — 
then  I  will  return!  Surely,  surely,  dear,  you 
trust  me !  You  will  believe  in  me — just  this  once ! 
When  I  return  to  you  I  will  explain  all — I  can't 
wait,  now — good-by ! " 

He  turned  to  follow  the  Indian  girl,  but  before 
he  could  take  a  step  his  wife's  arms  were  about 
his  neck  and  her  words  came  in  great  choking  sobs : 

"No!  No!  No!  You  axe  mine!  You  cannot 
go !  You  will  not  leave  me  at  the  altar !  Oh ,  if  you 
loved  me — if  you  loved  me,  you  could  not  go!  " 

Bill's  arms  were  about  her,  and  the  words 
rushed  from  his  lips:  "Love  you!  I  love  you 
more  than  life  itself— I  live  for  you!  But  I 
promised — my  word  has  passed — I  must  go!  In 
a  day — two  days — a  week — you  shall  know  and 
understand." 

With  a  low,  moaning  cry  Ethel  tore  herself 
from  his  embrace  and  reeled,  fainting  into  the 
arms  of  the  priest,  while  her  husband,  white  lipped, 
followed  swiftly  after  the  Indian  girl  who  had 
already  gained  the  end  of  the  aisle. 

But  a  few  moments  had  elapsed  since  Jeanne 
Lacombie  had  burst  into  the  room.     Moments  so 


The  Wedding  389 

tense — so  laden  with  terrible  portent — that,  al- 
though every  person  in  the  room  heard  each  spoken 
word,  brains  failed  to  grasp  their  significance; 
and  Appleton,  from  his  bench  near  the  door,  as  he 
saw  Bill  Carmody  turn  from  his  fainting  wife, 
for  the  first  time  doubted  his  sincerity. 

Men  were  on  their  feet  now,  gazing  incredulously 
at  the  boss,  who,  looking  neither  to  the  left  nor  to 
the  right,  strode  rapidly  down  the  aisle. 

Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  with  the  one 
thought  uppermost  in  his  mind,  to  stop  the  fore- 
man and  bring  him  to  his  senses,  Appleton  leaped 
the  intervening  benches  and,  slamming  the  heavy 
door,  shot  the  stout  bar. 

With  a  roar  of  anger  Bill  seized  a  heavy  split 
log  bench,  sending  a  couple  of  lumber- jacks  tum- 
bling among  the  feet  of  their  fellows,  and  whirling 
it  high  above  his  head,  drove  it  crashing  through 
the  door. 

The  bar  snapped  like  a  toothpick,  the  heavy 
panel  split  in  half  and  dropped  sidewise,  and 
without  a  moment's  hesitation  Bill  grasped  the 
half-breed  girl  about  the  waist  and  swung  her 
through  the  splintered  aperture. 

Turning,  he  swept  the  room  with  a  glare  of 
defiance.  For  a  moment  men  looked  into  the 
narrowed  eyes;  and  then,  as  the  eyes  of  the  boss 
rested  for  an  instant  upon  the  inert  form  of  his 
wife,  they  saw  the  defiant  glare  melt  into  a  look 
of  compassion  and  misery  such  as  none  had  ever 
seen  in  human  eyes. 


390  The  Promise 

Then  his  shoulders  stiffened,  his  jaw  squared, 
and  without  a  word  he  stepped  through  the 
shattered  door  and  disappeared  in  the  black 
drizzle* 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

ON  THE  RIVER 

That  Blood  River  Jack's  fear  for  the  safety 
of  Jeanne  was  well  founded  was  borne  home  to 
Bill  Carmody  in  the  story  the  girl  poured  into  his 
ears  as  they  pushed  on  in  the  direction  of  Mon- 
crossen's  camp. 

The  night  was  jet  black,  and  Bill  marveled  at 
the  endurance  of  the  girl  and  the  unfailing  saga- 
city with  which  she  led  the  way. 

The  honeycombed  river  ice  sagged  toward  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  and  the  water  from  the  melt- 
ing snow  followed  this  depression,  leaving  the 
higher  edges  comparatively  dry  and  free  from  snow. 

The  drizzling  rain  continued  as  the  two  stumbled 
forward,  slipping  and  splashing  through  deep  pools 
of  icy  water.  Each  moment  they  were  in  danger 
of  plunging  through  some  hole  in  the  rotting  ice; 
but  the  girl  pushed  unhesitatingly  onward,  and  the 
man  followed. 

Between  them  and  the  camp  of  Moncrossen  lay 
upward  of  a  hundred  miles  of  precarious  river 
trail,  and  with  no  crust  on  the  water-soaked  snow 
of  the  forest  they  could  not  take  advantage  of  the 

391 


392  The  Promise 

short  cuts  which  would  have  stricken  many  miles 
from  their  journey. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  Bill  called  a  halt, 
and  after  many  unsuccessful  attempts  succeeded 
in  kindling  a  sickly  blaze  in  the  shelter  of  a  clay- 
streaked  cut-bank. 

He  unslung  the  pack  which  he  had  taken  from 
the  shoulders  of  the  girl,  and  removed  some  bacon 
and  sodden  bannock.  As  they  toasted  the  bacon 
and  dried  the  bannock  at  the  smoliy  fire  the  girl 
hardly  removed  her  gaze  from  the  face  of  the  big, 
silent  man  who,  during  the  whole  long  night,  had 
scarcely  spoken  a  word. 

Her  cy^s  flashed  as  they  traveled  over  the 
mighty  breadth  of  him  and  noted  the  great  muscu- 
lar arms,  the  tight-clamped  jaw,  and  the  steely 
glint  of  the  narrowed  gray  eyes. 

Her  face  glowed  with  the  pride  of  his  strength 
as  she  recalled  the  parting  scene  in  the  bunk-house 
when  he  had  hurled  the  heavy  bench,  crashing 
through  the  door,  and  defied  the  men  of  the 
logs. 

He  had  done  this  thing  for  her,  she  reflected — 
for  her,  and  that  he  might  keep  his  promise  to  old 
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta.  She  wondered  at  his  silence. 
Why  did  he  not  speak?  And  why  did  he  sit 
gazing  with  tight-pressed  lips  into  the  flaring,  spit- 
ting little  fire? 

Her  breath  came  faster,  and  she  laid  a  timid 
hand  upon  the  man's  arm. 

"The  woman?"  she  asked  abruptly.     "Who  is 


On  the  River  393 

this  woman  with  the  hair  of  gold  and  the  eyes  of 
the  summer  sky?"  The  slender  fingers  gripped 
his  arm  convulsively.  "She  is  the  woman  of  the 
picture!"  she  cried,  and  her  eyes  sought  his. 

Bill  Carmody  nodded  slowly  and  continued  to 
stare  into  the  fire. 

"  She  is  rmT — my  wife, "  he  groaned. 

"Your— *m$el" 

The  girl  repeated  the  words  dully,  as  if  seeking 
to  grasp  their  import.  Her  fingers  relaxed,  her 
eyes  closed,  and  she  lay  heavily  back  upon  the 
blanket.  A  long  time  she  remained  thus  while 
Bill  stared  stolidly  into  the  fire. 

At  length  he  aroused  himself  and  glanced  toward 
Jeanne,  vv'ho  lay  at  his  side,  breathing  the  long, 
regular  breaths  of  the  deep  sleep  of  utter  weariness; 
and  he  noted  the  deep  lines  of  the  beautiful  face 
and  the  hollow  circles  beneath  the  closed  eyes  that 
told  of  the  terrible  trail-strain. 

"Sixty  straight  hours  of  thaU"  he  exclaimed  as 
his  glance  traveled  over  the  precarious  river  trail. 
Curbing  his  patience,  he  waited  an  hour  and  then 
gently  awoke  the  sleeping  girl. 

"  Jeanne, "  he  said  as  she  gazed  at  him  in  bewil- 
derment, "you  need  sleep.  I  will  go  alone  to  the 
camp  of  Moncrossen."  At  the  words  she  sprang 
to  her  feet. 

"No!  No!"  she  cried;  "I  have  slept.  I  am 
not  tired.  Come — to-day,  and  to-night — and  in 
the  morning  we  come  to  the  camp." 

"Yfe  must  go  then,"  said  Bill,  and  added  more 


394  The  Promise 

to  himself  than  to  Jeanne:  "I  wonder  if  he  would 
dare?" 

"  He  would  dare  anything — that  is  not  good ! "  the 
girl  answered  quickly.  "He  has  the  bad  heart. 
But  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  will  not  starve  quickly.  She 
is  old  and  tough,  and  can  go  for  many  days  with- 
out food;  as  in  the  time  of  the  famine  when  she 
refused  to  eat  that  we,  her  children,  might  live. 

"Even  in  times  of  plenty  she  eats  but  little,  for 
she  lives  in  the  long  ago  with  Lacombie — in  the 
days  of  her  youth  and — and  happiness.  For  she 
loved  Lacombie,  and — Lacombie — loved — her." 

The  girl's  voice  broke  throatily,  and  she  turned 
abruptly  toward  the  river. 

The  fine,  drizzling  rain,  which  had  fallen  steadily 
all  through  the  night,  changed  to  a  steady  down- 
pour that  chilled  them  to  the  bone, 

The  stream  of  shallow  water  that  flowed  over 
the  surface  of  the  ice  swelled  to  a  torrent,  forcing 
them  again  and  again  to  abandon  the  river  and 
slosh  knee-deep  through  the  saturated  snow  of  the 
forest. 

Broken  ice  cakes  began  to  drift  past — thick, 
black  cakes  which  scraped  and  ground  together 
as  they  swung  heavily  in  the  current, 

"The  ice  is  going  out!"  cried  the  girl  in  dismay. 
"We  can  no  longer  keep  to  the  river!" 

Bill's  teeth  clenched.  "The  breakup!"  he 
groaned.  "Moncrossen  will  go  out  on  the  flood, 
and  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta " 

He  redoubled  his  efforts,   fairly  dragging  the 


On  the  River  395 

girl  through  the  deep  slush.  The  rain  was  carry- 
ing off  the  snow  with  a  rush.  The  gullies  and 
ravines  were  running  bankful,  and  time  and  again 
the  two  were  forced  to  plunge  shoulder-deep  into 
the  icy  waters. 

At  noon  they  halted,  and  in  the  dripping  shelter 
of  a  dense  thicket  wolfed  down  a  quantity  of 
sodden  bannock  and  raw  bacon.  The  river  rose 
hourly,  and  the  crash  and  grind  of  the  moving  ice 
thundered  continuously  upon  their  ears. 

Progress  was  slow  and  grueling.  By  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon  they  had  covered  about  forty 
miles.  The  water  from  the  rising  river  began  to 
set  back  into  the  ravines,  forcing  them  to  make 
long  detours  before  daring  to  chance  a  ford. 

Darkness  came  as  an  added  hardship,  and  as 
they  toiled  doggedly  around  an  abrupt  bend  they 
saw  on  a  tiny  plateau,  high  above  the  dark  waters 
of  the  river,  a  faint  flicker  of  light. 

The  girl  paused  and  regarded  it  curiously; 
then,  hurrying  to  the  point,  she  peered  up  and 
down  the  river,  striving  for  landmarks  in  the 
gathering  gloom. 

"Vic  Chenault's  cabin!"  she  cried.  "I  missed 
it  coming  up.  I  knew  it  was  somewhere  up  the 
river.  He  is  a  friend  of  Jacques,  and  his  father 
was  the  good  friend  of  Lacombie." 

Drenched  and  weary,  the  two  pushed  toward  the 
light,  crossing  swift-rushing  gullies  whose  icy 
waters  threatened  each  moment  to  sweep  them 
from  their  feet. 


396  The  Promise 

Slipping  and  stumbling  through  the  muck  and 
slush,  crashing  through  dripping  underbrush, 
they  stood  at  length  before  the  door  of  the  low- 
roofed  log  cabin. 

Their  knock  was  answered  by  a  tousled-headed 
man  who  stood,  lamp  in  hand,  and  blinked  owl- 
ishly  at  them  from  the  shelter  of  the  doorway. 

"You  are  Vic  Chenault?"  asked  the  girl,  and, 
without  waiting  for  his  grunted  assent,  continued: 
"I  am  Jeanne  Lacombie,  and  this  is  M's'u'  Bill, 
The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die. " 

At  the  mention  of  the  names  the  door  swung 
wide  and  the  man  smiled  a  welcome.  They 
entered  amid  a  rabble  of  sled-dogs  and  puppies, 
which  rolled  about  the  floor  in  a  seemingly  inex- 
tricable tangle,  with  numerous  dusky  youngsters 
of  various  ages  and  conditions  of  nudity. 

Chenault's  Indian  wife  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the 
bunk,  a  blackened  cob-pipe  between  her  teeth, 
industriously  beading  a  moccasin;  and  seemed 
in  no  wise  disturbed  by  the  arrived  cf  visitors, 
nor  by  the  babel  of  hubbub  that  arose  from  the 
floor,  where  dogs  and  babies  howled  their  protest 
against  the  cold  draft  from  the  open  door  and  the 
pools  cf  ice-cold  water  that  drained  from  the 
clothing  of  the  strangers. 

Chenault  pronounced  a  few  guttural  syllables, 
and  the  stolid  squaw  reached  behind  her  and, 
removing  a  single  garment  cf  flaming  red  calico 
from  a  nail,  extended  it  toward  Jeanne. 

The  girl  accepted  it  with  thanks,  and  her  eyes 


On  the  River  397 

roved  about  the  cabin,  which,  being  a  one-roomed 
affair,  offered  scant  privacy.  The  woman  caught 
the  corner  of  a  blanket  upon  a  projecting  nail 
and  another  corner  upon  a  similar  nail  in  the 
upright  of  the  bunk,  and  motioned  the  girl  behind 
the  screen  with  a  short  wave  of  her  pipe. 

The  man  offered  Bill  a  pair  of  faded  blue  over- 
alls and  a  much-bepatched  shirt  of  blue  flannel, 
and  when  Jeanne  emerged,  clad  in  the  best  dress 
of  her  hostess,  Bill  took  his  turn  in  the  dressing- 
room. 

" Can't  be  too  pedicular  in  a  pinch,"  he  grinned 
as  he  wriggled  dubiously  into  the  dry  garments, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  seated  beside  the  girl 
upon  a  rough  bench  drawn  close  to  the  fire. 

Chenault,  being  a  half-breed,  was  more  inclined 
toward  garrulity  than  his  Indian  spouse. 

"How  3rcu  come?"  he  asked  with  evident 
interest.  Jeanne  answered  him,  speaking  rapidly, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  half-hour  the  man  was  in  full 
possession  of  the  details  of  their  plight.  He 
slowly  shook  his  head. 

"Moncrossen  camp  ver'  far — feefty — seexty 
mile,"  he  said.     "You  no  mak'." 

Bill  looked  up  suddenly.  "Have  you  a  canoe? " 
he  inquired. 

The  other  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "Canoe, 
she  no  good!"  he  grunted.  "Too  mooch  ice. 
Bre'k  all  to  hell  in  one  minute!" 

With  an  exclamation  he  leaped  to  his  feet. 
"By  gar!     De  flat  boat!"  he  cried  triumphantly. 


398  The  Promise 

"She  is  all  build  for  tak'  de  fur.  De  riv\  she  run 
ver'  swift.  In  de  morning  you  go — in  de  evening 
you  come  on  de  camp!" 

"I  will  pay  you  well  for  the  boat,"  said  Bill 
eagerly.  "I  have  no  money  here.  Give  me  a 
pencil;  I  will  write  an  order  on  Monsieur  Apple- 
ton,  the   man    who  owns   the   woods." 

At  the  words  the  half-breed  shrugged. 

"You  no  got  for  mak'  write,"  he  said.  "You 
tell  Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  you  come — by  gar!  You 
come!  You  tell  me  you  pay — you  pay.  You  no 
got  for  mak'  write. " 

Bill  smiled. 

"That  is  all  right,  providing  I  get  through. 
What  if  the  boat  gets  tipped  over  or  smashed  in 
the  ice?" 

Chenault  shrugged  again.  "You  De-Man-Who- 
Cannot-Die, "  he  said.  "You  got  de  good  heart. 
In  de  woods  all  peoples  know.  You  no  mak' 
write.     I  got  no  penzil. " 


CHAPTER   L 

FACE  TO  FACE 

Before  daylight  next  morning  the  two  men 
dragged  the  little  flat  boat  to  the  water's  edge. 
The  river  had  risen  to  full  flood  during  the  night 
and  out  of  the  darkness  came  the  crash  and  grind 
of  ice,  the  dull  roar  and  splash  of  undermined 
banks,  and  the  purling  rumble  of  swift  moving 
water. 

After  breakfast  Bill  ana  Jeanne,  armed  with 
light  spruce  poles,  took  their  places;  Chenault 
pushed  the  boat  into  the  current  and  it  shot  down- 
stream, whirling  in  the  grip  of  the  flood. 

There  was  no  need  for  oars.  Both  Bill  and  the  girl 
had  their  work  cut  out  warding  off  from  drifting 
ice  cakes  and  the  thrashing  branches  of  uprooted 
trees. 

Time  and  again  they  came  within  a  hair's- 
breadth  of  destruction.  The  eddying,  seething 
surface  of  the  swift  rushing  river  seemed  to  hurl 
its  debris  toward  their  little  craft  in  fiendish 
malevolence.  Ice  cakes  crashed  together  on  every 
hand,  water-logged  tree-butts  snagged  them  bow 
and  stern,  and  the  low-hanging  limbs  of  "sweep- 

399 


4-oo  The  Promise 

ers"  clawed  and  tore  at  them  like  the  teeth  of  a 
giant  rake  as  they  swept  beneath,  lying  flat  upon 
the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

Bill  grinned  at  the  thought  of  a  canoe.  In  the 
suck  and  swirl  of  the  current  the  odds  were  heavily 
against  even  the  stout  flat  beat's  winning  through. 

Ke  estimated  their  speed  to  be  about  eight 
miles  an  hour  and  devoted  his  whole  attention  to 
preventing  the  boat  from  fouling  the  drift.  They 
were  riding  the  "run  out,"  and  he  knew  that 
Moncrossen  would  wait  for  the  river  to  become 
comparatively  free  of  drift  before  breaking  out  his 
rollways. 

The  rain  ceased,  but  the  sky  remained  heavily 
overcast  and  darkness  overtook  them  while  yet 
some  distance  above  the  log  camp  and  skirting  the 
opposite  shore. 

Eager  as  he  was  to  meet  Moncrossen,  Bill 
decided  not  to  risk  crossing  the  river  in  the  fast 
gathering  darkness.  Gradually  the  boat  was 
worked  toward  shore  and  poled  into  the  back- 
water of  submerged  beaver  meadow. 

Landing  upon  a  slope  a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
back  from  the  river,  they  tilted  the  boat  on  edge, 
and,  inclining  it  forward,  rested  it  upon  the  tops 
of  stakes  thrust  into  the  ground.  The  blanket 
was  spread,  and  with  the  roaring  fire  directly  in 
front  the  uptilted  boat  made  an  excellent  shelter. 

An  awkward  constraint,  broken  only  by  neces- 
sary monosyllables,  had  settled  upon  the  two. 
On  the  river  each  had  been  too  busy  with  the  work 


Face  to  Face  401 

in  hand  to  give  the  other  more  than  a  passing 
thought,  but  now,  in  the  intimacy  of  the  camp- 
fire,  each  felt  uneasily  self-conscious. 

Supper  over,  Bill  lighted  his  pipe  and  stared 
moodily  into  the  flames  with  set  face  and  brooding 
eye.  From  her  position  at  his  side  Jeanne  covertly 
watched  the  silent  man. 

Of  what  was  he  thinking?  Surely  not  of  the 
girl — his  wife!  She  winced  at  the  word — but 
the  tense,  almost  fierce  expression  of  his  face,  the 
occasional  spasmodic  clenching  of  the  great  fists, 
could  scarcely  accompany  a  man's  thoughts  of  his 
wife  of  an  hour. 

Of  Moncrossen?  she  wondered.  Of  the  shooting 
of  Jacques?  Of  the  attack  upon  her?  Of  Wa-ha- 
ta-na-ta?  But,  no — the  gray  eyes  were  staring 
into  the  fire  calmly,  and  in  their  depths  she  could 
see  no  gleam  of  hate  nor  steely  glitter  of  rage. 

What  was  it  he  said  the  day  she  told  him  of  the 
affair  on  Broken  Knee?  "I,  too,  could  kill  him 
for  that. "  The  girl  gave  it  up,  and  fell  to  wonder- 
ing what  the  morrow  would  bring  forth. 

At  daylight,  when  they  poled  the  boat  into  the 
river,  Bill  gazed  in  surprise  at  the  surface  of  the 
stream.  A  few  belated  ice  cakes  floated  lazily  in 
the  current,  and  many  uprooted  snags  reared  their 
scraggly  heads  as  they  rolled  sluggishly  in  the  water. 

But  what  riveted  his  attention  were  the  logs. 
Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  smoothly  floating  logs 
dotted  the  river,  and  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
more  logs  were  coming. 
26 


402  The  Promise 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  and  stood,  shading  his  eyes 
with  his  hand.  Far  up  the  stream  the  surface 
seemed  solid  with  logs,  and  here  and  there  he  could 
make  out  moving  figures — tiny  and  frail  they 
looked,  like  strange,  misshapen  insects,  as  they 
leaped  from  log  to  rolling  log — the  white-water 
men  of  the  North. 

"It's  the  drive!"  he  cried  excitedly.  "My 
drive!  Come,  pole  for  your  life — we've  got  to 
work  her  across ! ' ' 

A  mile  farther  down  they  swept  around  a  wide 
bend,  and  before  them  loomed  the  cleared  roll- 
ways  of  Moncrossen's  camp,  and  on  top  of  the 
slope,  for  all  the  world  like  fortifications  command- 
ing the  river,  were  pile  after  pile  of  pyramided  logs. 

The  little  flat  boat  was  rapidly  approaching,  and 
men  could  be  seen  swarming  about  the  rollways. 
One  man  with  a  shirt  of  flaming  red  rushed  among 
them,  gesticulating  wildly,  and  faintly  to  their  ears 
came  the  raucous  bellowing  of  his  voice.  At  the 
sight  of  him  Jeanne  paled  visibly.  The  man  was 
Moncrossen. 

Even  as  they  looked  the  first  rollway  tore  loose ; 
the  logs,  rolling  and  tumbling  down  the  steep 
slope,  leaped  into  the  river  with  a  roar  and  a  splash 
that  sent  a  fountain  of  white  spray  flying  skyward. 
Bill  set  his  pole  and  fairly  hurled  the  boat  into  the 
bank  well  above  the  rollways. 

' '  Good  God ! "  he  cried.  ' '  Can't  he  see  the  drive? 
They'll  jam  and  my  men  will  be  killed!"  He 
leaped  ashore  and  crashed  through  the  intervening 


Face  to  Face  403 

underbrush  in  great  bounds,  closely  followed  by 
the  light-footed  Jeanne. 

They  gained  the  top,  and  while  rushing  along  the 
rollways  could  hear  Moncrossen  roaring  his  orders 
— could  catch  the  words  that  foamed  from  his  lips 
amid  volleys  of  crashing  oaths. 

"Cut  them  toggles!  Let  'em  go!  Let  'em  go! 
Damn  you!  Foul  that  drive!  I'll  show  'em  if 
they  c'n  slip  a  drive  through  me!" 

And  then — face  to  face  between  two  high-piled 
pyramids — they  met.  The  words  died  in  a 
horrible,  throaty  gurgle;  and  Moncrossen's  face, 
livid  with  rage,  turned  chalky  as  his  eyes  roved 
vacantly  from  Bill  Carmody's  face  to  the  face 
of  the  girl  beyond.  His  jaw  wagged  weakly,  his 
flabby  lips  sagged  open,  exposing  the  jagged,  brown 
teeth,  and  he  passed  his  hand  uncertainly  across 
his  eyes. 

"It's  the  greener, "  he  mumbled  thickly.  "It's 
the  greener  hisself. " 

Another  rollway  rumbled  into  the  river,  and  Bill 
leaped  into  the  open.  "Stop!"  he  cried.  "It's 
murder!     There  are  men  on  that  drive ! " 

The  two  lumber- jacks  who  stood  almost  at  his 
side  turned  at  the  sound  of  his  voice.  For  one 
moment  they  stared  into  his  face,  and  then  with  a 
wild  yell  dropped  their  peavies  and  fled  toward 
the  bunk-house.  Other  men  looked,  and  from 
lip  to  lip  flashed  the  word,  "The  greener!"  Men 
stared  at  him  dumbly,  or  turned  and  dashed  for  the 
clearing  in  a  panic  of  fear. 


404  The  Promise 

' '  He  come  up  out  of  the  river ! "  shrilled  one  as  he 
ran.  "I  seen  him!  An'  I  seen  him  go  under  a 
year  back !  He  come  hell  a  rippin'  up  through  the 
bushes — an'  a  she  one  a  follerin' ! " 

Men  crowded  about — the  bolder  spirits,  the 
matter  of  fact,  and  the  unsuperstitious  among  the 
crew — and  Bill  turned  again  to  Moncrossen,  who 
stood  rooted  in  his  tracks. 

"Where  is  she? "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice  that  cut 
distinctly  upon  the  silence.  "The  mother  of  this 
girl  ? "  Moncrossen  started.  With  a  visible  effort 
he  strove  for  control  of  himself. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  blurted,  and  the  words 
rasped  hollow  and  dry. 

Bill  turned  to  the  men. 

"Do  you  know?"  he  asked.  "An  old  Indian 
woman — did  he  bring  her  to  this  camp  ? ' ' 

The  men  stared  blankly  from  the  speaker  to 
Moncrossen  and  into  each  other's  faces.  Sud- 
denly, one  stepped  forward. 

"Look  in  the  storeroom!"  he  cried.  "A  little 
while  back — it  was  at  night — I  seen  'em  drag 
somethin'  in — him  an'  Larson  of  the  van."  At 
the  words,  Moncrossen  sprang  toward  the  speaker 
with  an  inarticulate  growl  of  rage. 

"You  lie!"  he  screamed;  but  before  he  reached 
the  man,  who  shrank  back  into  the  crowd,  Bill 
stepped  in  front  of  him.  He  raised  his  arm  and 
pointed  toward  the  clearing. 

"To  the  storehouse,"  he  said  in  the  same  low 
voice.     For  a  fleeting  second  Moncrossen  glared 


Face  to  Face  405 

into  his  eyes,  and  without  a  word,  turned  and  led 
the  way,  closely  followed  by  Bill  and  Jeanne, 
while  the  crowd  of  wondering  lumber- jacks  brought 
up  the  rear. 

At  the  storehouse  Moncrossen  paused.  "I'll 
fetch  the  key  from  the  office, "  he  leered;  but  Bill 
turned  to  a  man  who  stood  leaning  upon  his  axe. 

"Smash  that  door!"  he  commanded;  and  a  half- 
dozen  men  sprang  to  the  task.  The  next  instant 
the  door  flew  inward,  and  the  men  crowded  into  the 
building  to  return  a  few  moments  later  bearing 
the  old  squaw,  gagged,  bound,  and  wrapped  tightly 
in  a  blanket,  but  with  the  undimmed  black  eyes 
glaring  upon  them  like  a  hawk's. 

The  cords  were  cut  and  the  gag  removed  by 
willing  hands.  Someone  held  a  bottle  to  her  lips, 
and  she  drank  greedily.  Jeanne  dropped  to  her 
knees  by  the  old  woman's  side. 

"He  has  come,"  she  whispered.  "M'sV  Bill, 
The-Man-YTho-Cannot-Die,  has  come  to  you." 
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  nodded  her  understanding,  and 
her  beady  black  eyes  flashed. 

"She  must  have  water!"  cried  the  girl;  "and 
food!" 

At  the  words  a  half-dozen  men  rushed  toward 
the  cook-shack,  returning  a  few  minutes  later  laden 
as  to  victual  a  regiment. 


CHAPTER  LI 

THE  PROMISE  FULFILLED 

Again  the  interest  centered  upon  the  two  big 
men  who  faced  each  other  on  the  trodden  ground  of 
the  clearing.  Other  men  came — the  ones  who  had 
fled  from  the  rollway,  their  curiosity  conquering 
their  fear  at  the  sight  of  the  dead  man. 

And  now  the  greener  was  speaking,  and  the  tone 
of  his  voice  was  gentle  in  its  velvety  softness.  His 
lips  smiled,  and  his  gray  eyes,  narrowed  to  slits, 
shone  cold — with  a  terrible,  steely  coldness,  so 
that  men  looked  once,  and  shuddered  as  they 
looked. 

"And,  now,  Moncrossen, "  he  was  saying,  "we 
will  fight.  It  is  a  long  score  that  you  and  I  have 
to  settle.  It  starts  with  your  dirty  schemes  that 
Stromberg  wouldn't  touch. 

"Then,  the  well-laid  plan  to  have  Creed  bump 
me  off  that  night  at  Melton's  No.  9;  and  the 
incident  of  the  river,  when  you  broke  the  jam. 
You  thought  you  had  me,  then,  Moncrossen.  You 
thought  I  was  done  for  good  and  all,  when  I 
disappeared  under  the  water. 

"There   are   other    things,   too — little  acts   of 

406 


The  Promise  Fulfilled  407 

yours,  that  we  will  figure  in  as  we  go.  The  affair 
on  Broken  Knee,  when  you  attacked  this  young 
girl;  the  shooting  of  Blood  River  Jack,  from 
ambush;  the  second  attack  on  the  girl  at  the  foot 
of  the  rapid — and  the  brutal  starving  of  Wa-ha-ta- 
na-ta. 

"Oh,  yes;  and  the  little  matter  of  the  bird's-eye. 
I  have  the  logs,  Moncrossen,  all  safely  cached — 
the  pile  of  ashes  you  found  was  a  blind.  Quite  a 
long  score,  take  it  first  and  last,  isn't  it,  Moncros- 
sen?" 

The  silence,  save  for  the  sound  of  the  voice, 
was  almost  painful.  Men  strained  to  listen,  look- 
ing from  one  to  the  other  of  the  two  big  men,  with 
white,  tense  faces. 

At  the  words,  the  blood  rushed  to  the  boss's 
face.  His  little,  swinish  eyes  fairly  blazed  in  their 
sockets.  He  was  speechless  with  fury.  The  cords 
knotted  in  his  neck,  and  a  great  blue  vein  stood 
out  upon  his  forehead.  The  breath  hissed  through 
his  clenched  teeth  as  the  goading  words  fell  in 
the  voice  of  purring  softness. 

"But  it  has  come  to  a  show-down  at  last, 
between  you  and  me, "  the  greener  went  on  as  he 
slowly  and  methodically  turned  the  sleeves  of  his 
shirt  back  from  his  mighty  forearms.  "They 
tell  me  you  are  a  fighting  man,  Moncrossen. 
They  tell  me  you  have  licked  men — here  in  the 
woods — good  men,  too.  And  they  tell  me  you 
have  knocked  down  drunken  men,  and  stamped  on 
their  faces  with  your  steel-calked  boots. 


4-o8  The  Promise 

"Maybe — if  you  last  well — I  will  save  a  couple  of 
punches  for  those  poor  devils'  account.  I  think 
you  will  last,  Moncrossen.  You  are  big,  and 
strong,  and  you  are  mad  enough,  in  your  blind, 
bull-headed  way. 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  knock  you  out.  I  am 
going  to  make  you  lie  down — to  make  you  show 
your  yellow,  and  quit  cold ;  for  this  is  going  to  be 
your  last  fight.  When  I  am  through,  Mon- 
crossen, you  won't  be  worth  licking — no  ten-year- 
old  boy  will  think  it  worth  his  while  to  step  out  of 
his  way  to  slap  your  dirty  face. " 

With  a  hoarse  bellow,  Moncrossen  launched 
himself  at  the  speaker.  And  just  at  that  moment 
— swarming  over  the  bank  at  the  rollways — came 
the  men  of  the  upper  drive.  The  leaders  paused, 
and  sizing  up  the  situation,  came  on  at  a  run. 

"A  fight!"  they  yelled.  "A  fight!  H-o-o- 
r-a-y!" 

Then  came  Appleton  and  Sheridan  with  their 
wives,  and  beside  them  walked  a  slender,  girlish 
figure,  whose  shoulders  drooped  wearily,  and 
whose  face  was  concealed  by  a  heavy,  dark-blue 
veil. 

The  two  lumbermen  guided  the  ladies  hurriedly 
in  the  direction  of  the  office,  when  suddenly  the 
shrill  voice  of  Charlie  Manton  broke  upon  their 
ears. 

"Whoo-p-e-e!  It's  Bill!  Go  to  it,  Bill!  Swing 
on  him !  Give  him  your  left,  Bill !  Give  him  your 
left!" 


The  Promise  Fulfilled  409 

They  halted,  and  obeying  some  strange  impulse, 
the  girlish  figure  turned  and  made  straight  for  the 
wildly  yelling  men,  who  stood  in  the  form  of  a 
great  circle  in  the  center  of  which  two  men  weaved 
and  milled  about  each  other  in  a  blur  of  motion. 

Old  Daddy  Dunnigan  was  the  first  to  see  her 
hovering  uncertainly  upon  the  edge  of  the  crowd. 
Brandishing  his  crutch  he  howled  into  the  ears  of 
those  nearest  him : 

"Give  th'  lady  a  chanst!  Come  on,  miss  J 
He's  her  man,  an'  God  be  praised!  she  wants 
to  see  'urn  foight!" 

The  men  made  a  lane,  and  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  did,  Ethel  found  herself  standing  beside 
the  old  Irishman,  who  had  wormed  his  way  to  the 
very  front  rank  of  the  crowding  circle.  She 
stared  in  fascinated  terror,  throwing  back  her  veil 
for  a  clearer  view,  regardless  of  the  men  who  stared 
at  her  in  surprise  and  wondered  at  the  whiteness  of 
her  face. 

Bill  Carmody  met  Moncrossen's  first  rush  with  a 
quick,  short  jab  that  reached  the  corner  of  his  eye. 
With  an  almost  imperceptible  movement  he  leaned 
to  one  side,  and  the  flail-like  swing  of  the  huge 
boss's  arm  passed  harmlessly  within  an  inch  of  his 
ear. 

Moncrossen  lost  no  time.  Pivoting,  he  swung 
a  terrific  body  blow  which  glanced  lightly  against 
Bill's  lowered  shoulder,  and  the  greener  came  back 
with  two  stiff  raps  to  the  ear. 

Again  and  again  Moncrossen  rushed  his  antago-- 


410  The  Promise 

nist,  lashing  out  with  both  fists,  but  always  the 
blows  failed  by  a  barely  perceptible  margin,  and 
Bill — always  smiling,  and  without  appreciable 
effort — stung  him  with  short,  swift  punches  to 
the  face. 

And  always  he  talked.  Low  and  smooth  his 
voice  sounded  between  the  thud  of  blows  and  the 
heavy  breathing  of  the  big  boss. 

"Poor  business,  Moncrossen — poor  judgment — 
for  a  fighting  man.  Save  your  wind — take  it 
easy,  and  you'll  last  longer — this  is  a  long  fight, 
Moncrossen — take  it  slow — slow  and  steady." 

The  taunting  voice  was  always  in  the  boss's 
ears,  goading  him  to  blind  fury.  He  paused  for 
breath,  with  guard  uplifted,  and  in  that  moment 
Bill  Carmody  saw  for  the  first  time  the  figure  of  his 
wife.  For  an  instant  their  eyes  met,  and  then 
Moncrossen  was  at  him  again.  But  Bill's  low, 
taunting  voice  did  not  waver. 

"That's  better,"  he  said,  and  moved  his  head 
to  one  side  as  a  vicious  blow  passed  close.  "And 
now,  Moncrossen,  I'm  going  to  hit  you  on  the 
nose — I  haven't  hit  you  yet — those  others  were 
just  to  feel  you  out. " 

With  an  incredibly  swift  movement  he  swung 
clear  from  the  shoulder.  There  was  the  wicked, 
smashing  sound  of  living  flesh  hard  struck.  The 
big  boss  staggered  backward,  pawing  the  air. 
and  the  red  blood  spurted  from  his  flattened 
nose. 

"That  one  is  for  trying  to  get  Stromberg  to  file 


The  Promise  Fulfilled  411 

a  link."  Bill  ducked  a  lunging  blow  without 
raising  his  guard.  "And  now  your  ear,  Mon- 
crossen;  I  won't  knock  it  off,  but  it  will  never  be 
pretty  again. " 

Another  long  swing  landed  with  a  glancing  twist 
that  split  the  ear  in  half.  "That  is  for  the  Creed 
item — and  this  one  is  for  the  river. " 

The  boss's  head  snapped  backward  to  the  im- 
pact of  a  smashing  blow ;  again  he  staggered,  and, 
turning,  spat  a  mouthful  of  blood  which  seeped 
into  the  ground,  leaving  upon  the  surface  several 
brownish,  misshapen  nuggets. 

"  God!"  breathed  a  man,  and  turned  away. 
"It's  his  teeth!" 

The  yelling  had  ceased  and  men  stared  white 
faced.  This  was  not  the  fighting  they  were  used 
to;  they  understood  only  the  quick,  frenzied  fight- 
ing of  fury,  where  men  pummel  each  other  in  blind 
rage,  fighting  close — as  tigers  fight — gouging  and 
biting  one  another  as  they  roll  upon  the  ground 
locked  in  each  other's  grip. 

The  men  gazed  in  awe,  with  a  strange,  unspoken 
terror  creeping  into  their  hearts,  upon  the  vicious 
battering  blows,  the  coldly  gleaming  eyes  and 
smiling  lips  of  the  man  who  fought,  not  in  any 
fume  of  passion,  but  deliberately,  smoothly, 
placing  his  terrific  blows  at  will  with  a  cold,  deadly 
accuracy  that  smashed  and  tore. 

Moncrossen  rushed  again. 

"And  now  for  the  other  things, "  Bill  continued; 
"the  attacks  upon   the  defenseless  girl — the  at- 


412  The  Promise 

tempted   murder  from  ambush — and   the  starv- 
ing of  an  old  woman. " 

Blow  followed  blow,  until  in  the  crowd  men  cried 
out  sharply,  and  those  who  had  watched  a  hundred 
fights  turned  away  white  lipped. 

Moncrossen  fought  blindly  now.  His  eyes  were 
closed  and  his  face  one  solid  mass  of  blood.  And 
still  the  blows  fell.  Smash!  Smash!  Smash! 
It  was  horrible — those  deliberate,  tearing  blows, 
and  the  lips  that  smiled  in  cold,  savage  cruelty. 

No  blow  landed  on  the  point  of  the  jaw,  on  the 
neck,  on  the  heart,  or  the  pit  of  the  stomach — 
blows  that  bring  the  quiet  of  oblivion;  but  each 
landed  with  a  cutting  twist  that  ground  into  the 
flesh. 

At  last,  with  his  face  beaten  to  a  crimson  pulp, 
Moncrossen  sagged  to  his  knees,  tried  to  rise,  and 
crashed  limp  and  lifeless  to  the  ground.  And 
over  him  stood  Bill  Carmody,  smiling  down  at  the 
broken  and  battered  wreck  of  the  bad  man  of  the 
logs. 

Gradually  the  circle  that  surrounded  the  fighters 
broke  into  little  groups  of  white-faced,  silent  men 
who  shot  nervous,  inquiring  glances  into  each 
other's  faces  and  swore  softly  under  their  breath — 
the  foolish,  meaningless  oaths  of  excitement. 

Minutes  passed  as  Ethel  stood  gazing  in  terrible 
fascination  from  the  big  man  to  the  thing  on  the 
ground  at  his  feet.  And  as  she  looked,  a  hideous 
old  squaw,  apparently  too  weak  to  stand,  strug- 
gled from  her  place  of  vantage  among  the  feet 


The  Promise  Fulfilled  4*3 

of  the   men,  and  crawled  to  the  limp,  sprawled 
form. 

Leaning  close  she  peered  into  the  shapeless 
features,  crooning  and  gurgling,  and  emitting 
short,  sharp  whines  of  delight.  Her  beady  eyes 
glittered  wickedly,  like  the  eyes  of  a  snake,  and 
the  withered  lips  curled  into  a  horrid  grin,  expos- 
ing the  purple  snag-toothed  gums. 

Suddenly  the  bent  form  knelt  upright,  the 
skeleton  arms  raised  high  above  the  tangle  of  gray- 
black  hair,  the  thin,  high-pitched  voice  quavered 
the  words  of  a  weird  chant,  the  clawlike  fingers 
twitched  in  short,  jerky  spasms,  and  the  emaciated 
body  swayed  and  weaved  to  the  wild,  barbaric 
rhythm  of  the  chanted  curse. 

Terrible,  blighting,  the  words  were  borne  to  the 
ears  of  the  girl.  Bearded  men  looked,  listened, 
and  turned  away,  shuddering.  The  sun  burst 
suddenly  through  a  rift  in  the  flying  clouds,  and 
his  golden  radiance  fell  incongruously  upon  the 
scene. 

Ethel  gazed  as  at  some  horrid  phantasm — the 
rough  men  with  gaudy  shirts  of  red  and  blue  and 
multicolored  checks,  standing  in  groups  with 
tense,  set  faces — the  other  man — her  man — ■ 
standing  alone,  silent  and  smiling,  by  the  side  of  his 
blood-bathed  victim,  and  the  old  crone,  whose 
marcid  form  writhed  in  the  swing  of  the  thin- 
shrieked  chant. 

And  then  before  she  sensed  that  he  had  moved 
he  stood  before  her.     She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  in 


414  The  Promise 

which  the  hard,  cold  gleam  had  given  place  to  a 
look  of  intense  longing,  of  infinite  love,  and  the 
long-pent  yearning  of  a  soul. 

He  stretched  his  arms  toward  her  and  she  saw 
that  the  bruised  and  swollen  hands  were  stained 
with  blood.  Suddenly  she  realized  that  this  man 
was  her  husband.  A  sickening  fear  overcame  her, 
and  she  shrank,  shuddering,  from  the  touch  of  the 
blood-smeared  hands. 

A  look  of  terror  came  into  her  face;  she  covered 
her  eyes  with  her  hands  as  if  to  shut  out  the  horror 
of  it  all,  and,  turning,  fled  blindly — she  knew 
not  where. 

As  she  ran  there  still  sounded  in  her  ears  the 
words  of  the  high,  thin  chant— the  blighting  curse 
of  Yaga  Tan. 


CHAPTER  LII 

THE   BIG  MAN 

Darkness  settled  over  the  North  country. 
The  sky  had  cleared,  the  wind  gone  down,  and  the 
air  was  soft  and  balmy  with  the  feel  of  spring.  A 
million  stars  sparkled  overhead  and  above  the 
intense  blackness  of  the  pines  the  moon  rose, 
flooding  the  timberland  with  the  mystery  of  her 
soft  radiance. 

Ethel  tossed  uneasily  in  her  cot  and  glanced 
across  to  where  her  aunt  and  Mrs.  Sheridan  slum- 
bered heavily.  Then  she  arose  and  stood  at  the 
window  gazing  out  on  the  moonlit  clearing  with  its 
low,  silent  buildings,  and  clean-cut,  black  shadows. 

Noiselessly  she  dressed  and  stole  into  the  silvery 
world.  Utterly  wretched,  dispirited,  heartsick, 
she  wandered  aimlessly,  neither  knowing  nor  caring 
whither  her  slow,  dragging  steps  carried  her. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance,  sounding  faint  and 
far,  came  the  shouts  of  men.  Unconsciously  she 
wandered  toward  the  river.  On  the  edge  of  a 
high  bluff  overlooking  the  railways  and  the  rushing 
waters  she  paused,  leaning  wearily  against  the  bole 
of  a  giant  birch. 

415 


416  The  Promise 

Thanks  to  the  quick  action  of  Bill  Carmody 
Moncrossen's  scheme  of  fouling  the  upper  drive 
had  taken  no  toll  of  human  life.  The  few  rollways 
that  were  broken  out,  however,  were  sufficient  to 
cause  a  nasty  jam,  and  far  below  where  the  girl 
stood  the  men  of  both  crews  worked  furiously 
among  the  high-piled  logs. 

Weird  and  unreal  it  seemed  to  Ethel  as  she 
gazed  down  upon  the  flare  of  huge  fires  built  upon 
the  bank,  the  tiny  flash  of  lanterns  and  the  flicker 
of  torches,  where  the  men  swarmed  out  upon 
the  uncertain  footing. 

Rough  calls  of  rough  men  sounded  above  the 
crash  and  pound  of  logs  and  the  roar  of  the  rushing 
waters.  Now  and  then  a  scrap  of  rude  chantey 
reached  her  ears,  a  hoarse  oath,  or  a  loud,  clear 
order  in  a  voice  she  knew  so  well. 

It  was  like  some  eery  fantasy,  born  of  an  over- 
wrought brain.  And  yet  she  knew  it  was  real — 
intensely  real.  Down  there  among  the  flashing 
lights  men  played  with  death — big,  rough  men 
who  laughed  loud  as  they  played,  and  swore  mighty 
oaths,  and  sang  wild,  full-throated  songs. 

From  the  shadow  almost  at  her  side  came  the 
sound  of  a  half -stifled  sob.  She  started.  There 
was  a  soft  footfall  on  the  leaf -mold,  and  before  her 
stood  Jeanne  Lacombie.  The  soft  moonlight 
touched  with  silvery  sheen  the  long  hairs  of  the 
great,  white  wolf -skin  which  the  girl  wore  thrown 
loosely  across  her  shoulders. 

As  Ethel  gazed  upon  the  wild,  dark  beauty  of 


The  Big  Man  417 

the  Indian  girl  her  tiny  fists  clenched,  and  her 
breath  came  in  short,  quick  gasps. 

Why  was  she  here?  Had  she  followed  to  taunt 
her  to  her  face?  A  mighty  rage  welled  up  within 
her,  her  shoulders  stiffened,  and  as  she  faced  the 
girl  her  blue  eyes  flashed. 

And  then  the  Indian  girl  spoke,  and  at  the  first 
words  of  the  soft,  rich  voice,  the  rage  died  in  her 
heart.  She  looked  closely,  and  in  the  dark,  liquid 
eyes  was  a  look  the  white  girl  will  never  forget. 

She  listened,  and  with  few  words  and  all  the 
dramatic  eloquence  of  the  pure  Indian  the  half- 
breed  girl  told  of  the  rescue  from  the  river;  of  her 
own  love  for  M's'u'  Bill,  " The-Man-Who-Cannot- 
Die";  of  his  firm  rejection  of  that  love;  of  her 
pursuit  of  him  when  he  started  for  the  land  of  the 
white  man ;  of  the  scene  at  the  camp-fire  when  old 
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta  called  him  ' '  The  One  Good  White 
Man  " ;  of  the  broken  knife ;  of  The  Promise ;  of  her 
peril  at  the  hand  of  Moncrossen,  and  of  the  cold- 
blooded shooting  of  her  brother. 

And  then  she  told  of  Bill's  all-absorbing  love  for 
her,  Ethel.  And  of  how  he  always  loved  her,  even 
when  he  believed  she  hated  and  despised  him;  of 
his  deep  hurt  and  the  misery  of  his  soul  when  he 
believed  that  she  was  to  marry  another. 

Until  suddenly  there  in  the  moonlight  the  girl  of 
the  city  saw  for  the  first  time  the  bigness  of  the 
man — her  man.  She  saw  him  as  he  was  now  and 
as  he  had  been  in  the  making — the  man  who  had 
been  dubbed  "Broadway  Bill,  the  sport";  the 
at 


4i8  The  Promise 

"souse,"  who  had  "soaked  a  cop"  and  then 
"beat  it  in  a  taxi." 

And  then  the  man  who,  without  name  or 
explanation,  had  won  the  regard  of  such  a  keen 
judge  of  men-  as  Appleton,  and  who,  under  the 
stigma  of  theft,  held  that  regard  without  question; 
the  man  who  beat  the  booze  game  after  he  had  lost 
his  heart's  desire,  and  had  been  sneered  at  as  a 
coward  and  a  quitter;  the  man  who  having  gained 
his  heart's  desire,  in  the  very  bigness  of  him,  had 
unhesitatingly  risked  wrecking  his  whole  life's 
happiness  to  keep  his  promise  to  an  old,  toothless, 
savage  crone;  and  who,  in  brute  fashion,  bare- 
fisted, had  all  but  pounded  the  life  from  the  body  of 
the  hulking  Moncrossen  in  defense  of  a  woman's 
honor. 

And  this  was  the  man  who,  eighteen  short 
months  before,  had  turkey-trotted  upon  the  side- 
walk in  front  of  a  gay  resort,  and  had  ' '  pulled  it  too 
raw  even  for  Broadway!" 

The  flood-gates  of  her  soul  opened,  as  is  the  way 
of  women  in  all  the  world.  The  great  sobs  came, 
and  with  them  tears,  and  in  the  tree-filtered 
moonlight  the  two  girls — the  tutored  white  girl  and 
the  half-savage  Indian — women  both — wept  in 
each  other's  arms. 

Up  the  trail  from  the  river,  almost  at  their  feet, 
wearily  climbed  a  man,  dog-tired  from  physical 
exertion;  and  worn  out  with  responsibility  and 
heart-rack  he  toiled  slowly  up  the  steep  ascent. 


The  Big  Man  419 

At  the  top  he  paused  and  removed  his  cap  to  let 
the  cool  air  blow  against  his  throbbing  temples. 
At  the  sight  of  the  two  forms  he  drew  back;  but  at 
the  same  moment  they  saw  him. 

With  one  last,  long  look,  and  no  word  of  farewell 
save  a  dry,  choking  sob,  the  Indian  girl  glided 
silently  into  the  darkness  of  the  forest,  which  was 
her  home,  and  the  home  of  her  people. 

On  the  edge  of  the  bluff  the  other  stood  sil- 
houetted against  the  star-flecked  sky.  She,  too, 
gazed  at  the  man  who  stood  motionless  in  the 
moonlight.  Then  with  a  lithe,  quick  movement 
she  opened  her  arms  to  him,  her  lips  parted,  and  in 
the  blue  eyes  blazed  the  love  of  all  the  ages. 

As  her  body  poised  to  meet  his  the  man  sprang 
toward  her.  His  arms  closed  about  her,  their  lips 
met;  and  for  a  long,  long  time  they  looked  deep 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

Then  slowly  the  tiny  fingers  closed  about  his, 
the  girl  raised  them  reverently  to  her  lips  and 
covered  with  kisses  the  great,  bruised,  and  swollen 
hands. 


THE  END 


THE   BEST   OF   RECENT   FICTION 

Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale,  The.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.     A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Affair  at  Flower  Acres,  The.     Carolyn  Wells. 

Affinities  and  Other  Stories.     Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

After  House,  The.     Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Against  the  Winds.     Kate  Jordan. 

Alcatraz.    Max  Brand. 

Alias  Richard  Power.     William  Allison. 

All  the  Way  by  Water.     Elizabeth  Stancy  Payne. 

Amateur  Gentleman,  The.     Jeffery  Farnol. 

Amateur  Inn,  The.     Albert  Payson  Terhune. 

Anna  the  Adventuress.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Anne's  House  of  Dreams.     L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Anybody  But  Anne.     Carolyn  Wells. 

Are  All  Men  Alike,  and  The  Lost  Titian.    Arthur  Stringer. 

Around  Old  Chester.     Margaret  Deland. 

Arrant  Rover,  The.     Berta  Ruck. 

Athalie.     Robert  W.  Chambers. 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.     Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

At  Sight  of  Gold.     Cynthia  Lombardi. 

Auction  Block,  The.    Rex  Beach. 

Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky.     Eliza  C.  Hall. 

Awakening  of  Helena  Ritchie.     Margaret  Deland. 

Bab:  a  Sub-Deb.    Mary  Roberts  Rinehart 

Bar  20.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar  20  Days.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar-20  Three.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Barrier,  The.     Rex  Beach. 

Bars  of  Iron,  The.     Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Bat  Wing.     Sax  Rohmer. 

Beasts  of  Tarzan,  The.     Edgar  Rice  Burroughs. 

Beautiful  and  Damned,  The.    F.  Scott  Fitzgerald. 

Beauty.     Rupert  Hughes. 

Behind  Locked  Doors.     Ernest  M.  Poate. 

Bella  Donna.     Robert  Hichens.   (Photoplay  Ed.), 

Beloved  Traitor,  The.     Frank  L,  Packard. 

Beloved  Vagabond,  The.     Wm.  J.  Locke. 

Beloved  Woman,  The.    Kathleen  Norris. 

Beltane  the  Smith.    Jeffery  Farnol. 

Betrayal,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Beyond  the  Frontier.    Randall  Parrish. 

Big  Timber.     Bertrand  W.  Sinclair. 

Black  Bartlemy's  Treasure.     Jeffery  Farnol. 

Black  Buttes.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 


AT      A      POPULAR      PRICE' 

Black  Caesar's  Clan.    Albert  Payson  Terhune. 

Black  Gold.     Albert  Payson  Terhune. 

Black  Is  White.    George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Black  Oxen.     Gertrude  Atherton.     (Photoplay  Ed.). 

Blue  Circle,  The.     Elizabeth  Jordan. 

Bob,  Son  of  Battle.    Alfred  Olivant. 

Box  With  Broken  Seals,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Brandon  of  the  Engineers.     Harold  Bindloss. 

Breaking  Point,  The.     Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Bridge  of  Kisses.     Berta  Ruck. 

Bring  Me  His  Ears,     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Broad  Highway,  The.    Jeffery  Farnol. 

Broken  Barriers.     Meredith  Nicholson. 

Brown  Study,  The.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Buck  Peters,  Ranchman.    Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bush-Rancher,  The.     Harold  Bindloss. 

Cabbages  and  Kings.     O.  Henry. 
Cabin  Fever.    B.  M.  Bower. 

Calling  of  Dan  Matthews,  The.    Harold  Bell  Wright 
Cape  Cod  Stories.     Joseph  C.   Lincoln. 
Cap'n  Dan's  Daughter.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Cap'n  Eri.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Cap'n  Warren's  Wards.    Joseph  €.  Lincoln. 
Carnac's  Folly.     Gilbert  Parker. 
Cat's  Paw,  The.     Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 
Cattle.     Winnifred  Eaton. 

Certain  People  of  Importance.     Kathleen  Norns. 
Chief  Legatee,  The.    Anna  Katharine  Green. 
Cinema  Murder,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
City  of  Lilies,  The.    Anthony  Pryde  and  R.  K.  Weehes. 
City  of  Peril,  The.    Arthur  Stringer. 
Clipped  Wings.     Rupert  Hughes. 
Clue  of  the  New  Pin,  The.    Edgar  Wallace. 
Colorado  Jim.     George  Goodchild. 
Coming  of  Cassidy,  The.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Coming  of  the  Law,  The.     Chas.  A.  Seltzer. 
Communicating  Door,  The.    Wadsworth  Camp. 
Comrades  of  Peril.     Randall  Parrish. 
Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.    Booth  Tarkington. 
Contraband.     Clarence  Budington  Kelland. 
Court  of  Inquiry,  A.   Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Crimson  Blotter,  The.    Isabel  Ostrander. 
Crimson    Gardenia*  The,    and    Other  Tales    of    Adventure. 
Rex  Beach. 


THE   BEST   OF   RECENT   FICTION 

Crimson  Tide,  The.     Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Cross  Currents,     Author  of  "Pollyanna." 
Cross  Pull,  The.     Hal  G.  Evarts. 
Cry  in  the  Wilderness,  A.     Mary  E.  Waller. 
Cry  of  Youth,  A.     Cynthia  Lombardi. 
Cup  of  Fury,  The.     Rupert  Hughes. 
Curious  Quest,  The.     E.   Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Curved  Blades,  The.     Carolyn  Wells. 
Cytherea.    Joseph  Hergesheimer. 

Damsel  in  Distress,  A.  Pelham  G.  Wodehouse. 

Dancing  Star,  The.     Berta  Ruck. 

Danger  and  Other  Stories.     A.  Conan   Doyle. 

Dark  Hollow.     Anna  Katharine   Green. 

Daughter  Pays,  The.     Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 

Depot  Master,  The.    Joseph   C.  Lincoln. 

Desert  Healer,  The.     E.  M.  Hull. 

Destroying  Angel,  The.  Louis  Joseph  Vance.  (Photoplay  Ed.). 

Devil's  Paw.  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Diamond  Thieves,  The.     Arthur  Stringer. 

Disturbing  Charm,  The.     Berta  Ruck. 

Dormegan.     George  Owen   Baxter. 

Door  of  Dread.  The.     Arthur  Stringer. 

Doors  of  the  Night.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Dope.    Sax  Rohmer. 

Double  Traitor.  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Dust  of  the  Desert.    Robert  Welles  Ritchie. 

Empty  Hands.    Arthur  Stringer. 

Empty  Pockets.     Rupert  Hughes. 

Empty  Sack,  The.     Basil  King. 

Enchanted  Canyon.     Honore  Willsie. 

Enemies  of  Women.    V.  B.  Ibanez.  (Photoplay  Ed.). 

Eris,    Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Erskine  Dale,  Pioneer.     John  Fox,  Jr. 

Evil  Shepherd,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Extricating  Obadiah.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Eye  of  Zeitoon,  The.     Talbot  Mundy. 

Eyes  of  the  Blind.     Arthur  Somers  Roche. 

Eyes  of  the  World.    Harold  Bell  Wright 

Fair  Harbor.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 
Family.     Wayland  Wells  Williams. 
Fathoms  Deep.     Elizabeth  Stancy  Payne. 
Feast  of  the  Lanterns*    Louise  Gordon  Miln. 
Fighting  Chance,  The.    Robert  W.  Chambers. 


AT      A       POPULAR      PRICE 

Fighting  Shepherdess,  The.     Caroline  Lockhart, 

Financier,  The.    Theodore  Dreiser. 

Fire  Tongue.     Sax  Rohmer. 

Flaming  Jewel,  The.     Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Flowing  Gold.     Rex  Beach. 

Forbidden  Trail,  The.     Honore  Willsie. 

Forfeit,  The.     Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Four  Million,  The.     O.  Henry. 

Foursquare.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Four  Stragglers,  The.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Free  Range  Lanning.     George   Owen  Baxter. 

From  Now  On.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Fur5  Bringers,  The.     Hulbert  Footner. 

Further  Adventures  of  Jirnmie  Dale.    Frank  L.  Packard. 

Galusha  the  Magnificent    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Gaspards  of  Pine  Croft,  The.     Ralph  Connor. 

Gay  Year,  The.     Dorothy  Speare. 

Gift  of  the  Desert.     Randall   Parrish. 

Girl  in  the  Mirror,  The.    Elizabeth  Jordan. 

Girl  from  Kellers,  The.     Harold  Bindloss. 

Girl  Philippa,  The.     Robert  W.   Chambers. 

Girls  at  His  Billet,  The.     Berta  Ruck. 

Glory!  Rides  the  Range.     Ethel  and  James  Dorrance. 

God's  Country  and  the  Woman.     James  Oliver  Curwood. 

God's  Good  Man.     Marie  Correlli. 

Going  Some.    Rex  Beach. 

Gold  Girl,  The.     James   B.  HendryX. 

Gold-Killer.     John  Prosper. 

Golden  Scorpion,  The.     Sax  Rohmer. 

Golden  Slipper,  The.     Anna  Katherine  Green. 

Golden  Woman,  The.     Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Gray  Phantom,  The.     Herman  Landon. 

Gray  Phantom's  Return,  The.     Herman  Landon. 

Great  Impersonation,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Great  Prince  Shan,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Greater  Love  Hath  No  Man.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Green  Eyes  of  Bast,  The.     Sax  Rohmer. 

Green  Goddess,  The.     Louise  Jordan  Miln.     (Photoplay  Ed.). 

Greyfriars  Bobby.     Eleanor  Atkinson. 

Gun  Brand,  The.    James  B.  Hendryx. 

Gun  Runner,  The.     Arthur  Stringer. 

Guns  of  the  Gods.    Talbot  Mundy. 

Hand  of  Fu-Manchu,  The.    Sax  Rohmer. 

Hand  of  Peril,  The.    Arthur  Stringer. 


THE   BEST   OF   RECENT   FICTION 

Harbor  Road,  The.     Sara  Ware  Bassett. 

Harriet  and  the  Piper.     Kathleen  Norris. 

Havoc.     E.   Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Head   of   the   House  of   Coombe,   The.      Frances     Hodgson 

Burnett. 
Heart  of  the  Desert,  The.     Honore  Willsie. 
Heart  of  the  Hills,  The.    John  Fox,  Jr. 
Heart  of  the  Range,  The.     William  Patterson  White. 
Heart  of  the  Sunset.     Rex  Beach. 
Heart  of  Unaga,  The.     Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Helen  of  the  Old  House.     Harold  Bell  Wright. 
Hidden  Places,  The.     Bertrand  W.  Sinclair. 
Hidden  Trails.     William  Patterson  White. 
Hillman,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Hira  Singh.     Talbot   Mundy. 
His  Last  Bow.     A.  Conan  Doyle. 
His  Official  Fiancee.     Berta  Ruck. 
Homeland.     Margaret    Hill  McCarter. 
Homestead  Ranch.     Elizabeth  G.  Young. 
Honor  of  the  Big  Snows.     James  Oliver  Curwood. 
Hopalong  Cassidy.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 
Hound  from  the  North,  The.     Ridgwell  Cullum. 
House  of  the  Whispering  Pines,  The.  Anna  Katharine  Green. 
Humoresque.     Fannie   Hurst. 
Illustrious  Prince,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
In  Another  Girl's  Shoes.     Berta  Ruck. 
Indifference  of  Juliet,  The.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 
Infelice.     Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 
Initials  Only.     Anna  Katharine  Green. 
Innocent.     Marie  Corelli. 

Innocent  Adventuress,  The.     Mary  Hastings  Bradley. 
Insidious  Dr.  Fu-Manchu,  The.     Sax  Rohmer. 
In  the  Brooding  Wild.     Ridgwell  Cullum. 
In  the  Onyx  Lobby.     Carolyn  Wells. 
Iron  Trail,  The.     Rex  Beach. 
Iron  Woman,  The.     Margaret  Deland. 
Ishmael.     (111.)     Mrs.  Southworth. 
Isle  of  Retribution.     Edison  Marshall. 
I've  Married  Marjorie.     Margaret  Widdemer. 
Ivory  Trail,  The.     Talbot  Mundy. 
Jacob's  Ladder.     E.   Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Jean  of  the  Lazy  A.     B.  M.  Bower. 
Jeanne  of  the  Marshes.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Jeeves.     P.  G.  Wodehouse. 


AT      A      POPULAR      P  Ric\ 

Jimmie  Dale  and  the  Phantom  Clew.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Johnny  Nelson.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Joseph   Greer  and  His  Daughter.     Henry  Kitchell  Webstej 

Judith  of  the  Godless  Valley.  Honore  Willsie. 

Keeper  of  the  Door,  The.     Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Keith   of  the  Border.     Randall   Parrish. 

Kent  Knowles:  Quahaug.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Kilmeny  of  the  Orchard.     L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Kingdom  of  the  Blind,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

King  of  Kearsarge.    Arthur  O.  Friel. 

King  of  the  Khyber  Rifles.     Talbot  Mundy. 

King  Spruce.     Holman  Day. 

Knave  of  Diamonds,  The.    Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Land-Girl's  Love  Story,  A.     Berta  Ruck. 

Land  of  Strong  Men,  The.     A.  M.  Chisholm. 

Laramie  Holds  the  Range.     Frank  H.  Spearman. 

Last  Trail,  The.     Zane   Grey. 

Laughing  Bill  Hyde.     Rex  Beach. 

Laughing  Girl,  The.     Robert  W.   Chambers. 

Law  Breakers,  The.     Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Law  of  the  Gun,  The.     Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Leavenworth  Case,  The.     Anna  Katherine  Green.   (Photoplay 

Edition). 
Light  That  Failed,  The.     Rudyard  Kipling.   (Photoplay  Ed.). 
Lighted  Way,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim, 
Lin  McLean.     Owen  Wister. 
Lister's  Great  Adventure.     Harold  Bindloss. 
Little   Moment  of    Happiness,    The.      Clarence     Budington 

Kelland. 
Little  Red  Foot,  The.     Robert  W.  Chambers. 
Little  Warrior,  The.     Pelham  Grenville  Wodehouse. 
Lonely  Warrior,  The.     Claude  C.  Washburn. 
Lonesome  Land.    B.  M.  Bower. 
Lone  Wolf,  The.     Louis  Joseph  Vance. 
Long  Live  the  King.     Mary  Roberts  Rinehart.   (Photoplay 

Edition). 
Lost  Ambassador.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 
Lost  Discovery,  The.    Baillie  Reynolds. 
Lost  Prince,  The.    Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 
Lost  World,  The.     A.  Conan  Doyle. 
Luck  of  the  Kid,  The.    Ridgwell  Cullum. 
Lucretia  Lombard,  Kathleen  Norris. 
Luminous  Face,  The.    Carolyn  Wells. 
Lydia  of  the  Pines.    Honore  Willsie. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.00  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


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SENT  ON  ILL 


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U.  C.  BERKELEY 


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SENT  ON  ILL 


DEC  0  d  1398 


U.  C.  BERKELEY 


LD  21-100m-7, '40 (6936s) 


V 


IB  32915 


M60720 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


